tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58454369338073832332024-03-15T21:09:45.325-04:00Kensington StoriesRon Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.comBlogger781125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-48717582368533243732017-04-27T12:31:00.001-04:002017-04-27T18:55:46.483-04:00Our Home in Our Hearts<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The sound
of the metal being ripped apart was almost sickening. With its large toothed scooper the backhoe found yet another void between the boards and the fence to
place its four sharp fangs and then pull hard forward tearing another section
of white and blue plastic along with metal studs, collars and some occasional
nuts and bolts. Within just a few seconds the eight-foot section of boards was
gone. Just lying on the floor in a heap of plastic and tin. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">The backhoe then growled and again made it's way to another section of the boards ready to attack. And with no expression at all, the operator just continued his job while gently moving the black joysticks on his console.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">"Hey
Ronnie, you ok?" You really took that one square in the head". </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I
remember the windup from John Arnold and that's just about it. Lights out and
straight to the asphalt of my crease. Boom!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">But then
just like my mom waking me up in the morning to go to school there was Bill
Webster's face along with his black longshoreman's wool cap staring at me with
concern though the two eyeholes of my fiberglass goalie mask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">"Wow
that one really left a mark on your mask but most important it didn't go
in".<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Now only
a fellow goalie can relate to getting hit in the mask by a puck. It's a loud
deafening "cling" that makes your ears ring for hours, along with the
lump that you'll have on your forehead the next day in school.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">"I'm
ok Bill, but man did that one really hurt."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Bill
Webster who was both a reference and linesman and volunteered so much of his
time at the league helped me get back up to my feet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">"You
sure you're ok Ronnie, because if you're feeling a little dizzy I'll tell
McCourt to put it Mitch Stern".<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">" No
I'm ok Bill, let's get this going".<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Bill blew
his whistle and all the guys lined up for another face off just to my left on
the circle. With white puffs of smoke blowing through their mouth guards
it was just a split second before the scotch 88 slapped to the ground.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Arnold
back to Randazzo at the point, Randazzo moves in and takes the shot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The
scotch 88 whizzed past my outstretched Cooper catch glove and hit the back of
the netting in an instant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">"Yeah!!!!!!"
Yeahhhhh!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">With
their sticks raised high in the air it was yet another celebration for the 67
Pct. Blues. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The
scoreboard hanging on the fence by the F-train froze with 2:49 left in the
first period.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Home 0<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Away 1<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Kenny
Whelan one of my defenseman scooped the puck out of the bottom of the goal and
flicked it to center ice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">"Don't
worry Ronnie, there was nothing you could have done about that one."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Yeah, try
telling that to the guys on the bench I thought to myself. All sitting there
with their heads hanging down like they were awaiting execution or something.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Oh man,
this sucks I thought to myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">But still
the band played on and somehow we managed to win that game by a score of 2-1. I
think I faced 53 shots that game. It was probably the best game I ever played
in my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The 70th
Pct. youth council roller hockey league back in the 1970s was our world. On any
given weekend down at Avenue F there could have been over 400 players, coaches
and fans in and out of the park. It was our Mecca of roller hockey; it was our
Madison Square Garden, Nassau Coliseum or Maple Leaf Garden. You choose the
arena and that's what it was in an instant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">There
were tons of fans watching us along with many of the parents of the kids who
played there. It was where all the action was each and every Saturday and
Sunday all throughout the 1970s. There was nothing like it, nothing.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">You wore your team jersey with pride when you walked around in Kensington or Windsor Terrance. You were part of something great, part of something special. You were part of the 70th Pct Youth Council Roller Hockey League and you couldn't be more proud of who you were and who you played with.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">And it was never going to end, never. This was going to last forever until the day we died.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">"Hey
man you can't do repairs here, this is city property". <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I looked
up at the Park guy and smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">"Hey
man, do you know this was my home when I was a kid?" "I'm only trying
to fix some of these cracks so I don't kill myself when I play here
tomorrow".<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">It was
July 1990 when I decided to get back into playing goalie again. I remember
going down to Avenue F and seeing these younger guys playing without a goalie
and thought maybe they might appreciate having someone to shoot at. Just
pick-up because the league left years ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">"What
is that stuff?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">"Oh
its automotive Bondo, you know the stuff you fix cars with. Hey do you know
this stuff was invented in WW2 to plug holes in planes and not to throw off
their balance because it's so lightweight".<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">"Oh
Really?" I never knew that?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">With
about four cans of Bondo surrounding me I gained the confidence of the Park guy
and he just let me fix all the cracks around the goalie crease and face off
circle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I looked
around at the court that day and could not believe what I saw. Like an
abandoned western ghost town with tumbleweeds rolling through it looked like a
shell of its former self.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">No Fred
Allen, no Bill Webster, no teams, no fans, no score clock, nothing it's all
gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Well,
except for the gold plywood boards, somehow through some kind of miracle they
were still there and looked almost the same as they did in 1975.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Oh and
the F train rumbling overhead, well that's still there. But forget Gold’s and
the smell of horseradish, no they already moved to Long Island a few years ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">So from
1990 through 1996 we played pickup games at the court almost every Sunday
morning and all throughout the summer. Dragging two nets there on the top of my
car while trying not to scratch my roof. Different guys, different time, but
still so much fun nevertheless. It may have been like playing at an abandoned
playground in Chernobyl with rusty swings and melted asphalt but at least there
wasn't any radiation that we knew of.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">"What
the Hell is the South Brooklyn Roller Hockey League?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I
remember calling my cousin Pete Liria who played for the Terrace Rangers back
in the 70’s and telling him that the entire court was renovated and they
seem to have real looking NHL boards. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">"I
have no idea who's playing there now but the place looks great".<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">This may
have been 1997 or so from what I recall. Another span of years that I took off
from playing hockey because of my new marriage and new family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">"Wow,
I wish Avenue F was this nice when we played there back in the 70s" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Yet,
although the court was spanking New and there was a grandstand behind the
benches there was still something missing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The
crowds, the excitement, the hundreds and hundreds of guys and our heroes Fred
Allen and Bill Webster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The Fred
Allen Memorial game (2007)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I
remember my wife Virginia telling me that some guy named Louie Di Bi-something
wanted to talk to me. She said he was mumbling something about a memorial game
in honor of Fred Allen who ran the league and who had just passed away
recently.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The game
of course would be held at Avenue F where we all played 32 years ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">He was
looking for names and numbers of guys and of course asked me if I could play
goal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Wow, I
thought. A reunion game and the chance to see guys that I haven't seen in over
thirty years. You bet I'm going, not going to miss this for anything in the
world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">So with
all my goalie gear that I bought in the 90's I made my way down to F for a
reunion of reunions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">There was
Bill Webster, Jimbo Drudy, Billy Walsh, Alfred Guerriero, Johnny Blesh and so
many many guys that I haven't seen in decades. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Oh, and
there were some of the dreaded 67 Pct. Blues as well. But just as I started to
feel sick seeing their blue and yellow jerseys, John Arnold one of their best
players came over with a warm smile to say hello.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">"Ready
to stop me cold again Ronnie?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I had to
laugh to myself because Arnold probably got more goals on me than pebbles of
sand at Coney Island.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">So with
the memories of the 70's and the glory still in our hearts Bill Webster dropped
the scotch 88 at center ice and our reunion game began.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I really
don't remember how many goals anyone got on me that day and actually couldn't
care less, because seeing all those faces after 30 years was the most important
thing. And of course honoring and paying tribute to Fred Allen the man behind
the entire league. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">"You
know they want to tear out the hockey court and put something else here".<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I forgot
who told me this, but it was probably around 2014 or so. It may have been
Charlie Gili or maybe one of the kids who played pickup games at the court on
weekends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">"Ronnie
maybe you can go down with us to one of the community board meetings, we got to
fight this."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I believe
a guy named Andrew Lupo asked me to go down with a bunch of the weekend players
to a meeting in Midwood where the community board and Parks Department were
presenting their idea about the new Avenue F park. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I
remember they had an architectural drawing on a piece of foam core board
on an easel at the front of the room. The entire rendering looked green from a
distance and did not have the familiar face off circles of a hockey arena
anywhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The guys
did their best to argue for the court but the Councilman basically said,
"thank you all for coming down but the hockey court will not be a part of
the renovation". <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I
remember how he seemed to brag about the fact that he raised nearly three
million dollars for the renovation and how he's basically going to do what's
best for his constituents no matter what we said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">"Douche
bag" is all I thought to myself; Fred Allen would have knocked this
asshole out with one punch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Well the
guys all left the community board meeting feeling down and depressed. But still
the renovation would probably be hung up in red tape giving the boys a few more
years to play there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">So
for us older guys it was an occasional reunion game including the
"Inky Memorial Game" to honor one of our own who died as a result of
working at the WTC site after 9-11. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Slower
slap shots, pulled muscles and an occasional broken thumb or wrist. But still
it was fun followed by a get together over at Kevin Ryan's bar On
McDonald. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">No,
there's nothing a few Advil’s can't fix when you're pushing sixty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">"Hey
Ron, I hear the park is closing on Monday April 24th".<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I was
lucky enough to make friends with Artie the Park guy who looked after Avenue F.
Thinking about it now Artie may have also been the same guy who told me I
couldn't repair city property back in 1990 while I was filling the cracks of my
goalie crease with Bondo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">"Yeah
Ron, I'm sorry it looks like they'll be tearing it apart on Monday the
24th,"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Well
another reunion game it is, April 22, 2017. It's our last chance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">So
Facebook posts were made, emails were sent, and plane tickets were purchased.
This is it folks, our last time at Avenue F ever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">And came
they did, quads, roller blades and sneakers. White hair, grey hair and no hair.
No bellies, beer bellies and artificial hips and knees. The Boys are back in
town!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">So with
the threat of rain we skated through our last reunion game. Cloudy skies above
and rain held off until everyone was safe and cozy at Kevin's bar. It was a
miracle of sorts I tell you, a miracle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">On Monday
April 24th I decided to skate down to the court from my house on East 4th about
a mile away. Gliding all the way down East 4th and making the right into Ave F
like I did hundreds of times before in my full goalie gear and my Northstars
jersey. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">As I
approached McDonald Avenue I looked to the left towards the back of the court
facing North by the Park house. There were benches full of players, there were
time clocks, and there was Fred Allen, Bill Webster, Jerry Catalano, and Mister
Rossiter. There were crowds standing on the benches chanting my name. There
were players getting ready for the next game. These was Snowball Pierce, Richie
Kenna, Bob Brennan. The Blues, the Northstars, the Terrace Rangers, the
Penguins, the Flyers, Bob Lesser, and countless others who made Avenue F what
it was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">A Hope, a
dream, a sanctuary for us as kids and young adults. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">But as I
got closer to the court the images all disappeared. Replaced by a yellow
backhoe and white Parks Department dump truck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Ripped
boards, ripped metal and ripped hearts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">This was
our life guys, and it's all lying in a heap of steel and plastic now after 45
years. This just really sucks, it really does.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">As I was
about to skate away a young woman pulled up in a Parks Department car. As she
got out of the car she held blueprints in her hand. I went over and introduced
myself and told her what the court meant to me and my friends. She was actually
very apologetic and said she felt very bad about the hockey court being removed
and she realized that it was very important to so many people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">But
still, too little, too late I thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">So as I
skated away and made the right on Avenue F my mind was filled with a million
thoughts and a million memories. Feeling depressed, feeling sad, feeling awful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Of a
place that we called home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">And our
home was Avenue F.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Ron Lopez<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Ron Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-23933622386352570772017-02-21T15:06:00.004-05:002017-02-21T18:36:58.204-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<b>Finding 1969</b><br />
<br />
It's taken me almost fifty years to make peace with "1969". We've been fighting a long depressing battle for so, so long. Never looking at one another in the eye, and never speaking about our pain. We just try to forget who the other is, and try not to ask why we hate the other so much after all this time. Just sitting at opposite sides of the room and dare not to raise our heads up to speak. Silence and more silence, that's how we deal with our problems. Yes 1969, you made me hate you so much.<br />
<br />
Once while cleaning out my mom’s apartment I found one of those old time kitchen towel calendars buried in the back of the closet. Scrawled on it right in the middle were those dreaded numerals "1969". I quickly tossed it in a black garbage bag and covered it up with old shirts and material that belonged to my mom. But somehow that didn't work and instead the old dirty towel calendar made its way back to the top of the trash and right back in my head where I've been fighting it from going. Right back to where it belongs, enter the nightmares, enter the crying, 1969 is back again and it's never going away. <br />
<br />
You see 1969 started like every other year here on East Fourth Street - with my family's yearly New Years Eve party at my grandmother and grandfathers apartment right below our place. With dozens and dozens of relatives and a celebration for my cousin Pete whose birthday falls on the 31st of December. There was nothing that seemed different than any other New Years Eve, no it all seemed to be just right and nothing different from before I thought.<br />
<br />
<b>December 31st 1968</b><br />
It must have been a Guy Lombardo special that night too in 1968, being broadcast from the Waldorf Astoria Hotel about ten miles away on a cold winter's evening in Manhattan, the same hotel where my parents spent their honeymoon night.<br />
<br />
Standing around the television everyone was getting ready for the traditional countdown and had either a horn or a twirling gear noisemaker in their hand. And as the frigid wind blew against the old wooden windows of my grandparent’s house you could hear them gently rattle and whisper a sweet goodbye song to 1968.<br />
<br />
Then it started like every year, those same spoken numerals and the familiar countdown on the television. "Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one...Happy New Year!!!!<br />
<br />
With hugging, kissing and the usual crying my family all did their best to say goodbye to one year and bring in another as they have done many times before. <br />
<br />
<b>January 1st 1969 12:01 am</b><br />
For me 1969 has just begun and all its nightmares will live with me forever, and for my brother Joseph they will all soon end.<br />
<br />
<b>February 1969</b><br />
"Hey Joey why are you walking so funny? Are your shoes too tight? Because if they are we can go to Mays this weekend in downtown Brooklyn and buy you a bigger size".<br />
<br />
I vaguely remember my brother complaining to me about his legs or feet, but somehow I remember something wasn't right because my brother was doing a lot of sitting and lying around the house rather than being outside and running around with his friends and especially Steve McNally who lived next door.<br />
<br />
"Hey Joey are you feeling ok?"<br />
"Get away from me you idiot"<br />
<br />
That's ok, older brothers always speak to their younger brothers that way and given the fact that he seemed to be not feeling well I really didn't mind anyway.<br />
<br />
<b>April 2016</b><br />
Now it's all making sense <br />
Last year in 2016 I found a box of old photos in my closet here in Brooklyn. They were ones that we took upstate all during Easter of 1969. As I looked at each photo I noticed something quite consistent in each one. The expression on my brother’s face. In each and every photo Joseph had a pained expression. He wasn't smiling and in fact almost looked like he was ready to cry. It was his knees, it had to be.<br />
<br />
<b>Easter upstate in the Catskills<br />April 6th 1969</b><br />
“Hey Ronnie just stop for a minute, my knees really hurt”.<br />
<br />
I remember looking at my brother that day and seeing the pain in his face. We were fishing with my grandfather Paco down by the stream alongside the Hollow that lead to our house in the Catskills.<br />
<br />
My brother Joseph stopped behind me, in his left hand he held a fishing pole, in his right hand a white plastic bucket with two small brook trout swimming inside. The water was brown because we just scooped it up from the brook minutes before. I remember it just finished raining that day and the grass was quite wet too.<br />
<br />
I took my brothers fishing pole and bucket and helped him walk to our Rambler station wagon parked alongside the road. He just cried all the way to the house while rubbing his knees with his hands.<br />
<br />
My mother’s solution for many of life’s woes was a warm compress with Bengay. As my brother lie in bed that night the relief of a warm washcloth on his knees would only be temporary. Because when we got back to Kensington there would be doctor visits, new shoes, knee braces, questions about tendons and then finally blood tests.<br />
<br />
Apparently the knees are where a lot of bone marrow is produced, and when you have “acute childhood leukemia” at 13, they are bound to hurt.<br />
<br />
<b>June 7th 1969</b><br />
“Who are you here to see young man?” “You know its way past visiting hours and you don’t belong on the floor”<br />
<br />
The doctor spoke to me with authority while I was washing my hands in the men’s room at Maimonides Hospital that night.<br />
<br />
“Oh, I’m here visiting my brother Joseph Lopez in room 523”<br />
<br />
The doctor’s face just melted before my eyes and he looked almost apologetic now. He rubbed the top of my head and just said; “Oh that’s ok, you just spend some time with your brother young man.”<br />
<br />
You have to remember that although I knew my brother was sick, no one really told me how serious it was. But that few moments with the doctor in the men’s room told me something very different. I knew my brother was going to die, no matter what my mom said.<br />
<br />
All my brother Joseph did was just lie in that bed at Maimonides Hospital in Boro Park. Never smiling and sometimes sleeping. I hated the smell of that hospital, I hated everything about it. Now the wing he was in we called it the “round building", because from Fort Hamilton Parkway it somewhat looked like a Maxwell House coffee can. From his window you could see Kensington, 310 Beverley and PS 179. On the wall of his room was a card from his seventh grade class at Ditmas JHS. <br />
<br />
Joey also had a collection of hospital toys, toys that my mom and my family brought for him to play with while he was sick. There were little cars, trucks, comic books, and a model of the Mayflower. But there was one toy in particular that I will never forget. It was a small plastic white Jeep with a silver chain underneath that powered the four wheels. I would sit next to him and with his hospital bed on an incline we would just run the Jeep up and down the linen hill. My brother never really smiled in Maimonides you know, but that Jeep was the only toy that brought a little glimmer in his eyes.<br />
<br />
The nights at 399 East 4th were really awful too. When you always have an older brother either sleeping above you in a bunk bed or next to you in a twin bed, the thought of going to sleep without anyone there with you really hurt. And all you wished for every night was to wake up in the morning and see your brother beside you.<br />
<br />
Sometimes late at night I would hear my mother talking to her sister Beatrice who lived in Queens Village. My mom actually spoke fluent Polish, and most of the time that’s how the conversations started. But somewhere along the line they both broke down and it turned to English. When my mother described the bone marrow tests my brother had to take, and his screams that even made the nurses cry, that’s when I shut the door and tried not to think about it anymore.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>June 11th 1969</b><br />
I was in the 6th grade class at PS 179 on June 11th 1969. Mister Bernstein was my teacher and everyone was just so kind to me that day. From the sixth floor window you could see all of South Brooklyn, including Coney Island. I couldn’t concentrate on my work that day, and I kept repeating “Hail Mary” and “Our Father” over and over in my head as I looked at the Parachute Jump in the distance.<br />
<br />
Some of the kids walked over to me and just said “I hope your brother gets better”, even Michael McCall who used to break my pencils all the time. I never told anyone in class that my brother was even sick, so I was somewhat surprised that everyone knew about it, especially today.<br />
<br />
As the bell rang at three and I left school, I was surprised to see Clair McNally, my friend Paul’s mom waiting for me outside of the school on East Third Street.<br />
<br />
“Hi Ronnie. I just wanted to make sure you got home ok”<br />
<br />
I was kind of surprised because I was eleven and have been walking home alone for a while now. But Clair was very kind, so I don’t question her. As we walked up Avenue C towards East 4th, I started to feel a little sick, something just wasn’t right and Clair really didn’t talk to me either.<br />
<br />
As we made the left on East 4th and started getting closer to our house I started to feel real anxious and my heart beat faster. There were strange cars in my driveway and the whole thing didn’t feel right. Clair held my hand and walked me up the red brick stairs. Instead of opening up the left hand side door that lead up the stairway to our apartment, she opened up the heavy wooden door to the right that was my cousin Pete’s apartment.<br />
<br />
Clair made me sit down on the couch by the front window. <br />
As I looked up I saw my entire family sitting at the dinner table in the next room. They all just sat there quietly with looks of loss and sadness in their faces. <br />
<br />
My mom was there too.<br />
<br />
Why wasn’t anyone with my brother at the hospital?<br />
Why is everyone here?<br />
Why? Why? Why?<br />
<br />
As my mother got up from the table and started walking towards me, she started crying. She sat on the couch next to me and wrapped her arms around me. She just hugged me as hard as she could and then softly whispered in my ear; “Joey died”<br />
<br />
Suddenly it felt as though the floor fell through. Like I was floating through the air. Falling, falling, falling. I was hoping to hit the ground and just die so I could be with my brother Joseph.<br />
<br />
Then all of a sudden I heard the front door open. It was my cousin Pete coming home from Ditmas. My uncle Pete pulled him aside and also whispered in his ear. Pete just ran into his room in the back of the apartment. He was crying as he closed his door.<br />
<br />
Then a few minutes later my little cousin Denise walked in, and it was the same whispering and the same crying.<br />
<br />
And before you knew it the door just kept opening, more of our family had arrived. More crying, more whispers, more sad faces.<br />
<br />
No it wasn’t a dream, my brother really died that day.<br />
<br />
<b>Pitts's Funeral Home<br />June 13th 1969</b><br />
<b>The Nightmare is over for Joseph </b><br />
The young boys smile looked frozen and awkward as he slept. In-between his folded hands were a dark red rosary. His face was white as milk, and his hair jet black, combed backwards. Under the powdered make-up on his face you could still see freckles, they were dark brown and looked as though they were gently sprinkled on his cheeks.<br />
He wore a white shirt and white jacket. I think it may have been the one he wore for his Confirmation at IHM on Fort Hamilton Parkway.<br />
<br />
Above him were two freestanding lamps, with bright yellow lights shinning on his face, his eyes stayed closed. As an eleven year old I still clung to some miracle that Joseph would open them, just a crack is all I wished for. But my mother’s tears told me something else. <br />
I got up from the folding metal chair and walked to the back of the room and sat next to my cousin Pete and Denise. With tears streaming down both of their faces, I knew this wasn’t a dream <br />
Or nightmare. <br />
<br />
It was a warm June night at Pitta’s on McDonald Avenue in Kensington, Brooklyn. My brother Joseph was laying in a dark brown casket and was never ever going to wake up from his eternal sleep. <br />
<br />
No, my bother Joseph was dead.<br />
<br />
<b>Time moves on and it's back to the Catskills<br />June 30th 1969</b><br />
I never really ever took any kind of medication in my life and even at the edge of 60 I'm still trying my best to keep away from anything that comes in a little plastic bottle that sounds like a baby's rattle. Yet, to solve my 1969 issue I think I'm willing to try anything.<br />
<br />
The summer of 1969 found me once again up in the Western Catskills on our 200 acres by Huntley Hollow. And although my brother just died a few weeks before nothing in the world will keep my grandfather Paco from spending the summer up in the country. <br />
<br />
"This is Heaven Ronnie, this is what you call paradise". My Grandfather would always repeat these words with his wonderful Spanish accent too. Which made it that much more convincing and at the same time sweet.<br />
<br />
And maybe for my Grandfather Paco the Catskills were his little bottle of medicine too. Because just four years prior to my brother dying his own son Joseph Lopez Sr., my dad, passed away over at Delaware Valley Hospital over in Walton about fifteen miles away on a hot August night back in 1965. He was only thirty-nine years old at the time and lost his battle to lung cancer. But just like all of the Lopez family, the Catskill house was probably my dads little bottle of pills too. Because instead of spending his last few weeks at a hospital he chose instead to spend them at our house upstate looking at the mountains and the blue skies above. Yes this place is heaven and it always seems to draw us back no matter what the tragedy. So yes, nothing would stop my grandfather Paco from pointing our 1963 Rambler Classic station wagon Northwest from Brooklyn New York and driving 155 miles soon after the last candle was blown out at the funeral mass. No nothing.<br />
<br />
And don't get me wrong because I loved going upstate each summer. We owned over 200 acres and the view from our house couldn't be prettier. In the mornings it was a beautiful sunrise from right behind our pond and the sunsets were so very spectacular setting over the mountain ridge right across us by the Newbert's house about a half a mile away. Plus we had the most beautiful view of Bryden Hill right in front of the house, which was more like a mountain to most of us.<br />
<br />
Yet with all the beauty nature could offer along with all the support from my family nothing could help me from missing my brother Joseph who was with me each and every summer since 1957.<br />
<br />
Not one Sunset, not one Sunrise, not one trout I caught with my Grandfather down by the brook at the end of the Hollow.<br />
<br />
No, nothing was working, nothing.<br />
<br />
And I dare not ever ask my mom if I could go back to Brooklyn and be with my friends and my cousins rather than by myself in the Catskills. No, that would have been blasphemy taken to its deepest level. Because once you were upstate for the summer you were there for nine weeks straight without ever going down to Brooklyn even for the weekend.<br />
<br />
Plus it would have been the greatest insult to my grandfather Paco and no one would ever think about crossing that line.<br />
<br />
So each day in July the sun rose behind the pond and set across the ridge by the Newbert's little White House. The grass grew and then was cut, crickets sang at nighttime and the swallows built their nest on our house just like each summer before. And slowly and very slowly the days and then weeks rolled by, June turned the page to July and then to August.<br />
<br />
Yes there were weekend visits from my cousins and everyone did their best to comfort me and themselves from remembering that my brother was buried down at Paige Cemetery just about six miles away by Downsville.<br />
<br />
But still no, nothing was working.<br />
<br />
Constant sleepless nights up on the Hollow waking up from nightmares and imagining what would happen if my brother somehow woke up in his casket and tried to call us for help to get him out of there. Frantically scratching the silk cloth above his face and screaming at the top of his 13 year old lungs to get him out of there.<br />
<br />
"Mommy, Mommy, Help!!!! Ronnie, please Ronnie get me out of here!!!!!"<br />
<br />
Now let me tell you, the fact that my grandfather and grandmother wanted to visit my brother and dads grave every day that summer didn't help the situation either. I would always hope that every time we passed the Paige cemetery down by Downsville my grandfather would just drive by, but no each time we were on 206 and headed into Downsville I would hear the dreaded "click, click, click of the turn signal and my heart would start to sink,<br />
<br />
Just start shaking that little plastic bottle of pills for Ronnie, here's a glass of cold spring water and get ready to swallow. No that kind of medicine just did not work with probably made things worse.<br />
<br />
But please don't blame my grandparents because they were trying their best and in fact were mourning the deaths of both their son and their grandson named Joseph.<br />
<br />
<b>And still time moves on.</b><br />
I remember it was a Monday in mid August, my grandfather and I were sitting on these homemade versions of the Catskill chairs that he built and we were just looking at the mountains around us. And my grandfather Paco loved looking at the mountains he could just sit there are stare at the mountains and the deep blue sky all day. "Ahh, fresh air, you never get this fresh air in the city Ronnie, this is paradise Ronnie, this is Heaven".<br />
<br />
And then out of nowhere the familiar sound of a cars engine way in the distance broke thorough the silence of the green mountains and the blue skies above.<br />
<br />
"Hey Grandpa, a car, I think I hear a car?"<br />
<br />
Now seeing a car coming up our Hollow was certainly a special event, because during the course of any given day back in 1969 you were lucky if you ever saw one car coming up the hollow. Because up in the Hollow nature certainly ruled over humanity and hearing the sound of a cars engine straining its way up the ever so steep incline of the Hollow meant that there was certainly the possibility of seeing another human being.<br />
<br />
Which for me would have especially been a very good thing,<br />
<br />
As the sound of the engine echoed through the tall maples surrounding Huntley Hollow I could just make out a red car with a shiny chrome bumper climbing up the steep incline of the roadway down by mister Laidlaw’s house about half a mile away.<br />
<br />
As the car rumbled up the road and closer to our house I could make out it was a 1967 Red Ford Fairlane. <br />
<br />
The same kind of car my uncle Frank used to drive down in the city.<br />
<br />
As always we were expecting the car to pass our driveway and make it's way to the top of the mountain like every other car usually does.<br />
<br />
Now back in 1969 the entire Hollow was paved after years of being a dirt road. The end of our driveway, which was about a tenth of a mile long, was exactly where the blacktop ended. Usually cars would either turn around right there and or just hit the dirt part of the road going about 45 mph and create a gigantic cloud of dust in their wake.<br />
<br />
But instead of using our driveway as a turnaround or creating a gigantic ball of dust the Red Fairlaine turned onto our road and headed our way. <br />
<br />
"A car is coming, a car is coming, mom a car is coming!!!"<br />
<br />
Now just close your eyes and imagine seeing an airplane fly way overheard while you were stuck on that desert island way out in the Pacific Ocean. You start screaming and waving your hands, jumping up and down and hoping the pilot will see you. Well, this is kind of what it was like whenever a car drove up the Hollow back in the 60s.<br />
<br />
As the car drove up our driveway I could make out two arms dangling out each window of the front seats. The sound of the tires making a crunching sound the entire way along with a occasional brush of an over hanging blackberry branch scraping its bright red sides.<br />
<br />
As the car made a gentle stop by our house I could make out someone inside the car who looked familiar.<br />
<br />
It was my first cousin Frankie.<br />
<br />
"Frankie! Frankie!!"<br />
<br />
My cousin Frankie smiled and got out of the old Ford Fairlaine with his friend Dexter who I remembered from our visits to Queens Village. Both Frankie and Dexter had long dark hair, bell-bottom jeans, cowboy boots and beards. Just looking like the typical "Hippie" types that my grandfather Paco always seemed to despise during his rants whenever we watched the channel four news together at 399 East 4th. <br />
<br />
I sometimes think that my grandfather Paco may have been a fascist too . Whenever we would see hippies protesting on TV back in the late 1960's he would start telling me that they should all be sent to jail and have their heads shaved.<br />
<br />
"In a Spain Franco would never let them walk around with hair that long, he would have them all put into work camps and shave their heads". <br />
<br />
Along with his rants about having someone with an ax chop your finger off for stealing an apple I sometimes pondered the old saying that you can "take the boy out of Franco but never take the Franco out of the boy".<br />
<br />
But still I loved my grandfather Paco to death and always smiled when he told me to cut my long hair.<br />
<br />
"Mister Lopez, Mister Lopez are we so glad so see you!!" "This is my friend Dexter from California and we're looking for a place to spend the night".<br />
<br />
"My grandfather Paco shook my cousin Frankie's hand along with Dexter’s and assured them that they would be more than happy for them to spend the night.<br />
<br />
Paco 1, Franco 0<br />
<br />
My cousin Frankie then looked at me with the biggest smile ever. "Hey Ronnie, how are you? You're never going to believe where Dexter and I have been for the past four days, it's was totally insane, totally crazy! What a trip you're never ever going to believe it".<br />
<br />
Now my cousin Frankie was about five years older than me and had the most contagious laugh. He always seemed to make me feel better because he never seemed to let anything bother him and always seemed to laugh off any problem he may have had.<br />
<br />
And seeing him on a Monday in mid August was just what I needed to make me feel a little better after my cousin Pete left the night before on a Sunday.<br />
<br />
"Misses Lopez, aunt Stella, Isabel" my family slowly filed out of the house to greet my cousin and his friend Dexter.<br />
<br />
"Frankie, where the heck were you? Where you sleeping in mud? You're all filthy, wait till I tell my sister". <br />
<br />
"Don't worry aunt Stella I called my mom already and she knows all about it, in fact she's the one who suggested that we come up here instead of trying to drive back to Queens Village".<br />
<br />
My mom was smiling the whole time while looking at my cousin and Dexter, which made me feel better because it's been a while since I've seen her really smile.<br />
<br />
"Well, Hippies are welcome here right Frank?"<br />
Said my Mom to my Grandfather <br />
<br />
Holding back his inner "Franco" my grandfather Paco smiled and said his best "Yes Sir". Which was another one of his favorite sayings.<br />
<br />
"So where were you two Frankie?" Said my mom? Come on and let's let the cat out of the bag".<br />
<br />
"I don't know if you heard about it on the news but there was a crazy concert down by the Monticello race track off 17B."<br />
<br />
"The crazy Hippie fest? We saw that on the news last night". Said my mom.<br />
<br />
"Yes aunt Stella, we were at the Woodstock concert and it was insane".<br />
<br />
"Totally insane and totally nuts".<br />
<br />
And of course my cousin Frankie was laughing while he told us about the whole concert at the dinner table with Dexter by his side. Looking like the Jesus twins they told us all about the music, the rainstorm, the sunrise and the sunsets. The traffic, the dancing, the drug scene and the helicopters bringing the musicians in and out for the entire concert.<br />
<br />
Standing in front of our house later that evening my cousin pointed towards the mountains looking towards Roscoe and Monticello.<br />
<br />
"You see those mountains way down there? <br />
That's where the whole thing happened ".<br />
<br />
It was Monday night, August 18th 1969 and somehow a very thin ray of light was starting to shine though the darkness and depression of 1969.<br />
<br />
Maybe someday it won't be so bad after all I thought to myself, someday it won't.<br />
<br />
Well my cousin Frankie and Dexter slept at our house that night and got all washed up and headed back to Queens Village the next morning right after a big country breakfast.<br />
<br />
Watching their car drive away was the hardest part, but the stories they left with me about their four days down at Bethel weren't going anywhere and were never leaving.<br />
<br />
Well for the rest of the Summer up on Huntley Hollow all I could think about was the concert that they spoke about and all the crazy things that went on there for those four days.<br />
<br />
Looking every chance I could at the mountains towards Roscoe and imagining being there for those four nights just a few weeks before.<br />
<br />
The Woodstock concert, wow, that must have been so cool I thought, something oh so different from what my own version of 1969 was. And something that brought such joy to so many people. It must have been a real "trip" as my cousin Frankie would say, a real trip indeed.<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>2016 and finally coming to terms with 1969</b><br />
Well it's taken me almost fifty years to get over my brothers death and the darkness that the numerals "1969" bring to me. And somehow I have learned to use the "Woodstock Concert" as a form of medication and revenge against that year.<br />
<br />
Because while I was crying and feeling ever so alone up on Huntley Hollow during July and August of 1969, something magnificent and magical was happening about forty five miles away over the mountains that I looked at every Summer day from our house.<br />
<br />
Something that was legendary, something that wonderful, something that defined 1969 and in fact an entire generation.<br />
<br />
Finally something about 1969 that didn't involve my brother Joseph getting bone marrow tests at Maimonides Hospital.<br />
<br />
Finally something about 1969 that didn't involve my family all sitting around my aunt’s dinner table too afraid to tell me my brother died.<br />
<br />
No finally something about 1969 that I can think about without feeling sad.<br />
<br />
I know it's strange but somehow the Woodstock music and Arts Fair became that little white plastic bottle of pills that I've always been looking for. Something to take away the pain, something to take away the bad memories.<br />
<br />
True I was only eleven years old when it was going on and there was no way in Hell that my grandfather Paco would have driven down route 17 to see it. Being surrounded by all the long-haired peace loving Hippies that his inner Franco so disliked. Wishing to grab each one and have their heads shaved and then put them in some kind of work camp. No, I'm not feeling bad that I couldn't be there because there was no way I ever could have gone.<br />
<br />
But still I guess just knowing that it was all happening just about an hour away down in Sullivan County while we were up in the mountains over the border in Delaware county that same Summer of 1969 makes me smile. <br />
<br />
Maybe it's finally coming to grips with the fact that after something awful happens it's possible for something else positive and beautiful to occur not long after. I don't know.<br />
<br />
So as I rode the F train once again this morning I clicked on the little iTunes move icon and once again started watching the Woodstock documentary that I downloaded last year. Sometimes seeing mountains in the distance during different parts of the movie and wondering if that's where my grandfather Paco and I were sitting by our house and looking at the beautiful blue sky and other mountains in the distance towards Roscoe and Monticello and maybe even the concert itself.<br />
<br />
Yeah I know it's all a long shot and maybe just a pipe dream but it's ok. Because 1969 isn't as bad as it used to be and after all these years, and maybe just maybe now I can finally hang that old 1969 linen calendar back up on our kitchen wall where it really belongs. And look at those four dreaded numerals and finally smile.Ron Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-56064413001933006472014-12-31T13:29:00.001-05:002014-12-31T14:14:31.991-05:00Save Avenue F<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
Ok guys I’m going to do my best from my old puck hit memory to
explain the birth and history of hockey at Avenue F from 1972 to the early 80’s
when I played there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The 70<sup>th</sup> precinct PAL had two roller hockey teams
that originally played at the playground up by East 5<sup>th</sup> and Fort
Hamilton Parkway. They played without boards and the games were usually on
Saturdays and Sundays in the late 60’s through very early 70’s. They were the Ryan’s
Northstars and the Terrace Rangers. Local bars sponsored both teams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which in hindsight is actually funny
because we were just kids. The guys who ran the league back then were; Fred
Allen, Bill Webster, Jerry Cartalano, Mr. Pierce, Joe Romano, Louie DeBiasi,
Richie Kenna and many that others I forgot. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These men were all pretty much tough “blue collar” guys that
didn’t take shit from anyone including us teenagers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They also did more for us than anyone else because of the
time and devotion they put into the league.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On any given Saturday or Sunday back then there were probably
around a hundred people either watching or participating in the games up by the
playground on Fort Hamilton and East 5<sup>th</sup>. Especially when IHM let
out after mass, that’s when the place would fill up and it was standing room
only!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now a couple of the older guys who ran the league either
worked for the Parks Department or had some kind of affiliation with the city.
So when we heard there was going to be an actual rink being built down by
McDonald Avenue near Avenue F we were all quite excited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We also knew that it would happen much
faster than normal because they worked for NYC Parks and oversaw the McDonald
Avenue Park before the rink was actually there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No back then you just got things done period.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My cousin Pete has a vague memory of some Italian
construction company doing the paving work down by F during the summer of
1972.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fence piping and the
plywood were all put up by the guys who ran the league back then and also with
the help of some of the older teenage players who were skilled and strong
enough.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ok, I’m going to say that the original Avenue F was built in
the Fall of 1972.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cool thing about Avenue F from what I recall is we were
the first roller hockey rink in Brooklyn to have curved corners vs. the angled
corners that both 53<sup>rd</sup> and Kings Bay had. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the guys that ran the league were quite proud of that
too!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think they held some kind of painting party and many of
the boys that played in the league helped paint the boards, the blue lines,
face-off circles, goalie creases, etc.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The original nets that were lightweight aluminum were given
up for much heaver steel nets that could not be blown down by the wind. I
clearly remember our original nets being held by sand bags up on East 5<sup>th</sup>
when we played there. And for the record I still have one of the original nets
and my cousin Pete has the other. Patty DeSimone traded us the two nets for a motor scooter
back in 1971 or so.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Patty no longer has the motor scooter but we have the nets!!! I still use the net today to shoot into on my block here on
East 4<sup>th</sup>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The rink was originally named the Billy Powell Memorial
Hockey Rink after a young player was killed by a car on the way to one of the
games early one Sunday morning. Billy was killed by the circle by Prospect Park
down by the Coney Island Avenue/PPSW/Ocean Parkway merge. We were all in shock
that morning to learn that he was killed on his way to the game. We had a
ceremony one day before a game and there was even a sign erected on the fence
outside the rink.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was never known as the DiGilio Playground when we played
there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, we had refs, score boards, dozens of fans and the
action was always quite intense. There were fights galore, playoff games, crowds
cheering on the park benches, rivalries, hockey dinners, trophies, crying after
a tough loss and celebrations after you won the coveted “Kenna Cup”. The Kenna
Cup was our equivalent of the Stanley Cup and you better believe that when my
team won it we skated around the rink and held it up to the sky just like any
other NHL Pro team would.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had our annual hockey dinners at the Farragut Terrace and
one time we even had Bill Chadwick appear in person to speak.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We even once had a nighttime Roller Disco party down at the
rink around 1975 or so. There was music, food and hundreds of people enjoying a
night out by the rink. The Parks department even brought in floodlights to make
it well lit at night. There was even talk of installing floodlights for nighttime
games like at 53<sup>rd</sup> street.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those were the Glory Days at Avenue F and we thought it
would never end.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The 70<sup>th</sup> Pct Pal continued to run the league down
by F into the early 80’s from what I recall. I “retired” at 17 but then came
out of retirement at 19 to play again for another team at F. They were Richie
Kenna’s Flyers and once again there were fights, friendships, intense playoff
games and the same feel that we all felt 10 years before. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then things changed for many of us, we were too old to
play, some guys got married, some found girlfriends and hockey started to take
a back seat to other things. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think the wave of us “Baby Boomer” guys took over Avenue F
and then left just like we arrived.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember coming out of “retirement” one more time when I
was 33 years old. I remember going down to F in 1990 and looking at a wasteland
of what were the best years of my life. My goalie crease had a giant crack in
it and my roller blades were constantly getting stuck in it. Making saves were
difficult because of the bumpy goalie crease and the large fault line-like
crack. I came down one day after we played and fixed the crack with some
automotive bond so I could glide over it smoothly. We started to play on Sunday
mornings at 8 am and we brought down our nets. There were regulars that played
there and we had a great time just playing “choose-up”.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But then again things changed and hockey again took another
back seat to children and marriage. </div>
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<br /></div>
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But then one day in the late 90’s I remember seeing that the
court was totally redone. The surface looked awesome and the boards were actually
real ice hockey boards as opposed to the plywood that I always remember. There
was a banner that said “South Brooklyn Roller Hockey” and I was so happy to see
the court being used again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew
some of the guys running the league and even thought about getting involved
again. But sadly I never did.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I’m not sure what happened to that league but what I always
did notice was that the court was constantly being used on the weekends. There
were young guys always down there and it was nice to see the court in action.
From what I understand the court was even being cared for by these kids and
they went out of their way to make sure they were maintaining it while NYC
Parks was not.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Councilman David Greenfield should know that the rink is
being used as much as it was when I was a kid. Although there is not a league
there the rink is being skated on by humans and the fun and laughter is still
what I remember when I was 17. The guys by playing there keep a lot of
riff-raff out of the park and without them it would probably look like a
wasteland.</div>
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<br /></div>
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There is plenty space in that park to accommodate both
hockey and a nice renovation. Tear out the grandstand behind the rink and do as
you please. The guys don’t use the grandstand anyway.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But more important is maybe, just maybe young kids will
start using the rink again if the rest of the park is more palatable. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because right now the rest of that park
looks pretty scary and yes it can use a sprucing up. </div>
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<br /></div>
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It is also important to remember the history behind the Avenue
F Roller Rink. The blood, sweat and tears that were shed there. The hundreds if
not thousands of people that played there and still do today including me.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Please Councilman Greenfield, try to make a compromise of
some sort and be a hero to all, don’t let the memory of so many men who put so
much time into that rink go to waste. Because the Avenue F rink is more than
just an open space looking to be replaced by adult exercise equipment and a few
trees. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Avenue F rink has been a local institution since 1972 and is
still an active rink in 2015. Being used today by many people to enjoy the same
way we did as young adults in the 1970’s and 1980’s. Building friendships and memories
that will last forever while playing a sport you love so very much.</div>
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That’s something an adult exercise area will never ever do while
a hockey rink can. Please consider that thought before destroying the rink.</div>
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Thank you,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ron Lopez</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
399 East 4<sup>th</sup> Street</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brooklyn, NY, 11218</div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Ron Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-28438232613904743392014-09-18T20:51:00.001-04:002014-09-18T20:51:38.641-04:00<br />
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As I sat in my third grade classroom in PS 179 I could hear them roaring towards us. From my desk I could look out the window and see their long yellow roofs. They parked in front of the school entranceway on Avenue C. With their diesel engines just clattering away, I knew it was my time to go. On every Wednesday at 2 o’clock my stomach would start to hurt. It was time for the public school Christians to leave our sanctuary of bliss and head North up East 3rd street to The Immaculate Heart of Mary school. It was time for “Religious Instructions”. As I gathered my books and headed out the door I looked back and said good bye to Miss Saltzman. She just smiled back at me looking as beautiful as ever in her white go go boots. As I started to walk down the battle ship gray stairs I really started to feel nauseas. But you see I wasn’t alone, about four other</div>
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children followed me down. All of us silent, no words ever spoken. “Ronnie are you feeling OK” asked the school bus matron. A friend of my Mom’s whose name always escaped me. I tried to smile at her, but my lips always had a problem arcing up on the sides on a Wednesday afternoon. I always sat in the back of the bus too. Right under the “emergency exit” sign. Maybe hoping it would open up one day and I would just fall out. As the bus driver closed the doors, I closed my eyes. The bustling clatter of the diesel engine got louder as we pulled away and made a left onto East 3rd street. The ride up East 3rd street was the greatest torture. Especially as we passed Church Avenue, because everything I loved was right outside the school bus window, almost within reach. Kennys Toy Store, Lee’s Toy Store and a brand new Pizzeria called “Korner”. All the places I loved to visit with my Mom, yet here I am sitting on a cold school bus seat heading towards my doom. Church Avenue just vanished in the distance behind me. The bus made a left on Fort Hamilton Parkway and gently stopped in front of IHM School. We all silently gathered our belongings and filed out the bus. At this point I would really start to dread them. With my stomach feeling worse I was hoping to start throwing up this time before we got inside. One of them opened a heavy red metal door, dressed only in black, she just stared at us through her little round eyeglasses, not saying a word. The</div>
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public school heathens had just arrived. We sat in the classroom, all silent. One of them stood in front of the chalk board, she too was dressed in black with something white around the top of her head. Some kind of hat. Right below her head was a large white disc that looked like it was sawed in two. She held a long wooden yardstick in her wrinkled old hand. She just stood there glaring at us. I could make out her bee bee eyes behind her glasses, they were dark blue. She started to speak, “Now who can tell me about Jesus......And then it happened like it always did. There she was standing in front of the class. She had to be the most beautiful teacher at 179. Miss Saltzman, with beautiful dark eyes and long silky black hair. She had to be a dream, because when she spoke to me I just melted. When I’m old enough I’m going to marry Miss Saltzman, my third grade teacher. And even when she handed me my test papers that usually scored no more than 65. I just stared at her beautiful milky white hands and then her beautiful face, then down her neck to her tight pink sweater and then at her two beautiful full......Wack!, Wack!, Wack!, the tip of the wooden yardstick slammed hard on my desk, just barely missing my little fingers and almost hitting my Timex Dumbo watch that my Mom just bought me for Christmas. “I said wake-up and pay</div>
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attention young man!” “Don’t you care about Jesus?” At that point I was too scared to look up at her, I could only stare at the cross that was hanging on her waist with some sad looking skinny man with a long beard nailed to it. “I said look at me when I speak to you!” Now she was screaming at the top of her lungs. “I said look at meeeeeeeeeee.........and that’s when it happened. Without warning it just burst from my stomach, hot and steamy, with little pieces of the hot dog I just had for lunch. And it was all over her black dress, with some of it hitting the little man on the cross. I had just vomited like so many times before, and the “nerve medicine” my Mom gave me every Wednesday morning failed to work, again. I just sat</div>
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there frozen and she just stood there silent. “Now go to the boys room and clean yourself up”. I got up from my desk, I could feel evey ones eyes staring at my back as I walked out the door and down to the Boys room. I tried my best to wash myself off and I must have been there for a while, because when I walked out I could see my Mom talking with the Nun outside the classroom. My little sister Isabel was there too, just sitting in her stroller staring at the Nun. We left early that day and as we walked along Fort Hamilton Parkway towards East 4th the Church bells started ringing.</div>
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“Mom do I have to go back?” “You know what you have to do Ronnie”</div>
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is all my Mom said. Well, I did somehow manage to survive “Religious Instructions” and even made my Communion and Conformation at IHM. All because I knew “What I had to do”, Something thats just in your blood when you’re from Brooklyn. But the truth is even today some 43 later, I still can’t help but feel a little nervous when I see a Nun. The memories of “Religious Instructions”, the bus rides and the vomiting just come back to me like a nightmare. Because you see, even at 50, Some Bad Habits” are just too hard to forget!</div>
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Ron Lopez</div>
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Ron Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-74866501350775359392014-05-08T16:42:00.002-04:002014-05-08T16:43:21.489-04:00Freddie's Stoop.<br />
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On any given August night back in 1975 you could find me down the block on Freddie Schefferman's stoop. But not just me you know, the rest of the boys also made Freddie's stoop their perpetual brick and mortar home. Glen Gruder, Robert Brennan, Neil O’Callahan, Jimmy Spinner and my cousin Pete Liria.</div>
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Now most of us were anywhere from fifteen to twenty at the time, and Freddie was much older. Freddie could have easily passed for Jesus or Tommy Chong from “Cheech and Chong”. With long wavey black hair, a beard and little round glasses. It was hard to imagine what Freddie really looked like too.</div>
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Freddie may have been 35 years old at the time. His mother and father owned the house he lived in. And from the stories Freddie told us all the time, we were pretty sure that he grew up on the block too. I know Freddie graduated from Pratt in Brooklyn and did work “freelance” from time to time. Hey, he even owned a 68 Triumph Spitfire convertible, so he had to have some kind of dough. But most of the time Freddie just loved to “hang out” on the block. Just looking like “Jesus” in his bell-bottoms, sandals, and yellow and white striped shirt. Leaning against the white picket fence of his house talking to anyone who wanted to “hang out” with him.</div>
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Freddie did spend some time in Vietnam too; I think he told us he used to make maps there. But we never pushed it because who knew if he would “Freak out” about it. And Freddie knew just about everything you know, politics, art, religion, history, philosophy, and most important, Brooklyn.</div>
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“You kids should have been around here when the Trolleys ran on Church Avenue. You couldn’t imagine the shit we used to do with the Trolleys”</div>
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Freddie did share many of his Church Avenue Trolley stories with us. From squashing pennies on the rails to making late night explosions on the high wires by throwing a metal pipe up at the lines, hoping to arc them both at once, and causing something to blow. I guess it did work sometimes, because Freddie told us many stories about being chased by the cops up our block too.</div>
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“What the hell are you guys doing here with me?”</div>
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“you should be out getting laid somewhere,</div>
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you guys are really schmucks!”</div>
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Now we never asked Freddie the same question, because it was</div>
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still a Saturday night, and the clock just struck midnight for him</div>
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too. But we just took his insults in stride, and just listened to</div>
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more of his stories.</div>
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“Did you guys check out that new program “Saturday Night Live”, now that’s some funny shit. Hopefully NBC won’t cancel it next year like they always do. Bunch of schmucks!”</div>
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Freddie was a Jewish 60’s flower child with an edge.</div>
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“You guys are little assholes, didn’t you see</div>
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that girl walk by and smile at you?”</div>
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“Why don’t you talk to her and get her number?”</div>
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“When I was your age I had a girl on each arm every night”</div>
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No one ever dared to ask Freddie what happened,</div>
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because we never saw him with anyone on the block.</div>
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No, instead of a beautiful girl on each side of his shoulders,</div>
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Freddie had us instead. And let me tell you, we were far</div>
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from being beautiful.</div>
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Freddie hated the establishment too,</div>
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every President sucked,</div>
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every Governor sucked,</div>
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every Mayor sucked.</div>
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But then again we never asked Freddie if he ever voted.</div>
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On very rare occasions Freddie would let us down into his basement to see all his photography equipment. Freddie knew all about mold making and casting too. In fact he made me my first fiberglass goalie mask that I still have today. We may have even seen “pot roaches” in empty cat food cans down there too. If Freddie did smoke pot, we never knew it, because he kept his personal life in the basement. </div>
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Sometimes some of my friend’s dads would playfully rib Freddie about the fact that he seemed to be blissfully un-employed. Especially my friend Robert’s dad Bob Brennan.</div>
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Now Bob worked on the World Trade Center and told us countless stories about being up on the tower crane some 110 stories up. About how it swayed back and forth and almost got him sick on windy days.</div>
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“Hey get a job you bum”</div>
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Freddie would just laugh with all of us sitting around him.</div>
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Like overgrown Santa’s elf’s around our spiritual leader.</div>
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“Hey, I am working” “I’m teaching these kids about life,</div>
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including your son” “I’ll send you the bill next week!”</div>
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Sometimes another great Brooklyn philosopher and storyteller, Freddie’s downstairs tenant “Bobby Wilson” would join in on the conversation. Bobby Wilson was stocky and stood about six feet tall, with a big square jaw, dark blue eyes and midnight black hair. Bobby always looked like he was on the verge of murdering someone. He drove a tow truck for “Al & Leo’s” collision on 36th street near Fort Hamilton. In fact the place is now called “36th Street Collision” and Al is still the owner. Bobby always wore a dark blue jump suit with red script letters “Bobby” on his left chest, With the police scanner blaring and the volume up high, you always knew when Bobby was on the block. And don't forget, he had his name painted on the truck also, so you just couldn't miss him.</div>
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I think if Bobby didn’t know Freddie, he may have just beaten him up because of his long hair. Bobby hated hippies, freaks, the un-employed, the protesters, and the left-wingers. I think you get the picture. Yet together they were our own "Curtis Sliwa and Ron Kuby" right on East 4th street. Just arguing about everything and taking opposite sides on any subject. And of course Bobby’s solution for everything if conversation and debate didn’t work was to just “kick their asses” Most of Bobby’s stories were about his adventures driving his tow truck for Al and Leo. And usually when he was the first person to get to some horrible accident somewhere before the cops.</div>
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“Now who has a weak stomach here?”</div>
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“Because if you do, I don’t think you want to hear this one”</div>
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“OK, I heard this call on the scanner about a roll-over on McDonald and avenue C. It was late at night and I’m just a couple of blocks away. I get there and the car's totally in flames. It looked like a 69 Charger but I wasn’t sure. And the guys still in it because I see his head. So I try to pull the guy out of the car and the only thing I can grab is his head. So I’m on the ground squatting like this, just pulling and pulling. And them “Boom”, I fall backwards and the guy’s head comes off right in my hands. I’m on my back just looking at his head in my hands. I think he was even trying to talk to me too cause his lips were moving”.</div>
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At this point Freddie would be looking up at the</div>
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sky above East 4th, just rolling his eyes.</div>
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“Hey Freddie you think I’m bullshittin?”</div>
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“Cause if you do I’ll go upstairs and show you the guys ear,</div>
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I cut it off as a souvenir”</div>
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Freddie would just shake his head.</div>
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And the stories just went on and on, and the hot summer nights just rolled on by. I guess our parents were torn, on one hand they wanted us to be going out more, but then on the other all my mom had to do was poke her head out the window and see us all on Freddie’s stoop.</div>
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But just like everything when you were young,</div>
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you thought it would never end.</div>
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Until one day our nightmare came true.</div>
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Freddie told us he found a job and was going back to work.</div>
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Well, back to work, that’s ok. Because I worked too, and went to college also. So maybe Freddie couldn’t hang out till 2 AM anymore.</div>
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And then it hit us like a brick, my heart sunk, my world ended. Freddie told us his job was in Alaska, and he was leaving within a week, and would not be back for years.</div>
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We left the stoop that night feeling very depressed, but still held out some hope that Freddy was full of shit.</div>
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But then the day came that would be etched in my mind forever. Just a few days after Freddie told us the news I was sitting on my porch with some of the guys. Across the street was some guy walking with a clean white shirt and kacky pants. He crossed the street and started walking towards us. He had short black hair, clean smooth skin and a big bright smile. He also wore little round glasses.</div>
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“Do you guys know who I am?”</div>
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We just looked at him perplexed and said “no”</div>
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“You’re kidding, you don’t know who I am?”</div>
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“Sorry” we said, “we have no idea”</div>
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“You schmucks” the voice sounded familiar, yet the face wasn’t.</div>
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“I’m Freddie, you assholes”</div>
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Oh, my god, it was Freddie, he cut his beard, hair, and was wearing a white button down shirt and dress pants.</div>
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We all just stared at him in shock.</div>
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“I told you guys I got a job,</div>
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what did you think, I was full of shit?”</div>
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I guess maybe for once Freddie wasn't</div>
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full of shit, no he was really leaving the</div>
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block, and wouldn't be back for years.</div>
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I don’t remember the day Freddie left,</div>
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I may have been working or in college at the time.</div>
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We tried to pick up the pieces with Bobby Wilson and his tow truck stories, but it wasn’t the same without Freddie. Then tragically Bobby’s son Bobby jr. got real sick and died of a brain tumor. And Bobby just wasn’t the same anymore.</div>
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From what I heard he just stayed inside</div>
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his apartment and did a lot of crying.</div>
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The stoop in front of Freddie’s house was empty, yet there</div>
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was still hope that at least Bobby would be back someday.</div>
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But then one day when I got home from work I remember seeing a NYC morgue truck in front of Freddie’s house. I figured it was Freddie’s mom that died because she was quite old. As the black body bag was being carried out of the house, Bobby’s wife Eileen was holding on to it and crying. It was Bobby Wilson.</div>
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The doctors said it was an aneurism,</div>
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but we knew it was just a broken heart.</div>
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Because Bobby just could not live without his son.</div>
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I remember the funeral at Pitta’s on McDonald Avenue.</div>
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The whole block must have come that night.</div>
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And there was Bobby in the casket.</div>
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With a cigar in his pocket, and still looking like he could</div>
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kick someone’s ass, even in death.</div>
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Yeah, it was over.</div>
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Everyone was gone.</div>
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So the stoop remained empty forever at 418 East 4th.</div>
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And after Freddie’s parents died he sold the house.</div>
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We moved on with our lives. Found girlfriends or got married.</div>
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Some of us even moved away far from the block.</div>
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I heard Freddie finished his work in Alaska</div>
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and finally did get married.</div>
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In fact, rumor is he still lives in Brooklyn.</div>
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But truth is, I haven’t seen him in almost 30 years,</div>
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and neither has anyone else.</div>
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And I hope that some of those late night stories</div>
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about Brooklyn and life rubbed off on me too.</div>
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Because I grew up with some of the greatest storytellers</div>
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in Brooklyn, although at the time I don’t think they had</div>
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a clue that they were just that, “story tellers”.</div>
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And Freddie, wherever you are.</div>
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Thanks for all those great nights on your stoop.</div>
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Just hanging out and passing time,</div>
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and giving me a "gift" I will never forget.</div>
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Ron Lopez</div>
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Mopar195@yahoo.com</div>
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http://www.facebook.com/ronald.lopez.7946</div>
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Ron Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-76898201611407956782013-12-02T10:29:00.001-05:002013-12-02T10:29:22.430-05:00Bob Brennan (Last night I lost a friend)<br />
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Bob Brennan Sr. passed away last night in Brooklyn at the age of 83. Today a big part of my heart is missing, for I will miss Bob forever until the day I die.</div>
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Below is a story I wrote about 6 years ago, I am re-publishing it today in Bob's honor...</div>
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The greatest storyteller Brooklyn has ever known is my friend Bob Brennan. At 78, Bob is a Brooklyn original you know. From sneaking into Brooklyn Dodger games at Ebbetts field to climbing the wall outside Kings County Hospital to see a live autopsy. Bob just always had what seemed like a novels worth of stories to tell at any given moment.</div>
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“Oh, do I have a good one for you Ronnie” said Bob. “You know my brother Joey wasn’t one for doctors, and one day he hurts his arm real bad playing baseball down on Brooklyn Avenue. So after about a week he goes to the doctor. Well, he comes home with a cast on his arm, and there’s my brother going crazy every night with this cast. Its itchy as all hell, he’s sticking wire hangers, ice cream sticks, almost anything he can find to shove up the cast and scratch himself. Well, finally after six weeks he goes to the doctor to get it off. So when the doctor takes a small hammer and cracks it open, “Bang!”. He breaks open the cast and hundreds of roaches come running out.</div>
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The doctor gets up and runs the hell out of the room.</div>
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And there’s my brother just sitting there screaming with</div>
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all these roaches all over him”.</div>
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Besides being a wonderful storyteller, in many ways I felt like Bob was the Dad I never had also. When my dad died when I was seven many of the fathers on the block pitched in to either show me how to hold a hockey stick or catch a hardball. And of course Bob had the best arm on the block, he was even called for a tryout for the New York Giants Baseball team before he was drafted and went to Korea. So there I am just standing in front of my driveway at 399 East 4th with my new Rawlings mitt. “OK Bob, I’m ready”. With the gracefulness of a pro-ball player, Bob throws the hardball towards me. Like a streak of white it flies through the air crossing East 4th and hits the newly oiled palm of my glove, “snap”. I just stood there with my fingers and hand feeling like they got run over by the B35 bus on Church Avenue. “You OK, Ronnie?” Too embarrassed to say no, or even cry in pain. I dug the ball out of my oil soaked glove and threw it back to Bob. With the gracefulness of the “Tin Man” before he got oiled, the ball flies through the air, totally missing Bob’s glove. It ricochets off the hood of a 70 Plymouth Duster and lands in “Frank form Italy’s” tomato garden. Instead of laughing or being upset, Bob just retrieves the ball from the tomato garden. He walks over to me, “OK, now I’m going to show you how to throw the ball”. Yeah, that was Bob.</div>
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You have to understand that Bob’s stories and his personality were almost medicinal too. In some of the darkest days of my life I could always count on Bob to help me forget my pain. All without him ever knowing that he was doing just that.</div>
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After my little sister died at 33, I had to go to Kings County Hospital and identify her body. Without a moments hesitation I asked Bob if he could come with me. And without any hesitation on his part he just said “yes”. “Hey Ronnie, did I ever tell you about the time me and my brothers climbed the wall outside the morgue wing to watch them do an autopsy?.” Although I heard it before, I would rarely say yes, and especially not today. “No Bob I haven’t.</div>
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When I had to pick out a casket for my sister the next day at Pitta’s on McDonald Avenue. There was Bob with me in the “showroom” down in their basement. “Hey Ronnie, did I ever tell you the time I was at a funeral over at Cypress Hills Cemetery?” The ground is totally covered with ice, and here’s these two guys pulling the casket up a steep hill. Well one of the guy’s falls and the casket comes sliding down the hill like a toboggan at Prospect Park. It hits a tree and the stiff comes flying out of the casket". "What a mess I tell you”.</div>
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The Casket cost me fourteen hundred dollars,</div>
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but the therapy was free.</div>
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And the stories went on and on, from a baby eaten to death by rats in Brownsville when Bob was a kid. To the midget that fixed his oil tank in his basement, because he was small enough to fit inside it to do the repair work. Yeah, Brooklyn through and through, that’s Bob.</div>
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You better believe that Bob was one of the first people I saw after 9/11 too. Bob was a tower crane operator and worked on the World Trade Center back in the early 70’s. He used to tell me stories about sitting up in the cab some 110 stories up in the sky. “With the wind blowing it felt like you were on a ship, just rocking back and forth.” Bob pulled a lot of steel from the street to help build those buildings. And on 9/12 there I was, just sitting at his kitchen table. Looking at old photos of him standing on the roof of Tower 2 while the building was still a skeletal frame.</div>
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In many ways I feel bad that everyone doesn’t have a “Bob Brennan” in their life. Or maybe the entire Brennan family for that fact. There certainly would be a lot more laughing and less prescriptions being filled out at “Walgreen’s”. Yeah, that was my anti-depressant, a quick trip to 422 East 4th.</div>
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The other day my company was splashed across the business section in the “Wall Street Journal” another 2500 layoffs in 2008. So what’s a grown man to do? worry you say? No, just call Bob Brennan for that quick pick me up. “Hey Ronnie, did I ever tell you about the wedding I went to, here’s this guy standing over the bar like this. He has his eyes closed and just looks real stiff. When his wife tries to grab his arm, he’s cold as ice. This guys dead, standing up right over the bar, looking at his martini”.</div>
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Yeah, the greatest storyteller I have ever known lives on my block, and his name is Bob Brennan, and I’m proud to call him my friend.</div>
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Ron Lopez</div>
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(Sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction.)</div>
Ron Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-67854031853776353592013-11-25T14:09:00.002-05:002013-11-25T14:09:21.987-05:00<br />
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Back when I was a kid growing up in Kensington you rarely saw a parent taking a kid on the subway at eight in the morning. And if you did, is was probably for a doctor’s visit down on Clinton Street, or a day off to see the Christmas Tree at Rockefeller Center. No, no trains here, we just walked up our block and made the right on Avenue C. Our loyal institution of learning was just that close,</div>
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and that was “too close”.</div>
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Oh, public school 179, how I hated seeing you from my front window each and every day. With your two gigantic smoke stacks rising high in the sky there was no way I could miss you, even on the weekends. And on those dark winter mornings you were there too, the classroom lights just turning on before my little blue eyes. Flick, flick, flick, “yes we’re open for business”, “see you soon!”. Oh, and lets not forget to say the “Pledge of Allegiance” an hour and a half before we said it again in class. There was that little tiny figure again standing on the roof of the school, raising the “Stars and Stripes” on that tall white flag pole.</div>
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Sometimes I even used my binoculars to see if it was one of my teachers trying to send me a message. But my best instincts told me it was just the maintenance man. Forget Pre-school, Pre-K, or Special-K, it was kindergarten when you were five years old and nothing else.</div>
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“Pete let go of the pole”.</div>
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My cousin Pete and brother Joseph were the first to fall victim to the giant “Monster of Grout” on Avenue C. But Pete’s first day had to be the most memorable. There he was just holding on to the dark green enamel pole in the gym for dear life. My Aunt Dolores and Uncle Pete trying to un-lock his tiny arms that were wrapped tightly around it.</div>
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“No, no, no, I’m not going, noooooooo!”</div>
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At some point according to history my Uncle lifted my cousin up by his "Buster Browns" and held him horizontally trying to pull him off the pole. My cousin did loose a valiant battle that day, his little hands succumbing to the strength of two massive adults. But not before he scratched off some lead based paint from the green pole.</div>
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And me? well I had a whole year to absorb all the horror stories about your “first day”, and the nightmare called “kindergarten”. The strange kids, the white paste, ice cream sticks, and the dreaded colored construction paper. Yes, my “Castle of my discontentment” was right there before me, and I saw it every day.</div>
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And forget any “gifted programs” at 179 back in 1963; no, you were just ranked by your class number. The low digits meant you were smart, i.e.; 4-1, 4-2. While the high numbers meant you better start learning how to mix concrete, because you weren’t going to law school any time soon. But kindergarten was still a mixed bag, where they proudly paired the lawyers and the plumbers of tomorrow all in the same room.</div>
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“Hey kid, do you have any “Pez Candy?”</div>
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“What do you mean?”.</div>
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“Lopezzzzz, Pez Candy, Lopezzzzz!”.</div>
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And that’s when I started to cry. My first day of kindergarten and I was already being mocked. I tried to stay calm but then suddenly I felt rage building inside of me, just wanting to glue that kids face with some construction paper and white paste.</div>
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“Ronnie, just remember the first day is always the hardest”,</div>
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I could hear my mom's voice from deep inside my head,</div>
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she always calmed me down when I was about get angry.</div>
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So I put down the glue and just walked away.</div>
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Well, the days turned to weeks, the weeks to months, the months to years. Junior High, High School, College. And the days at P.S. 179 just became a distant memory of my childhood.</div>
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It’s strange but I still see the giant smoke stacks of P.S. 179 from my front window, and my son passes it almost every day on his way to school in Bay Ridge. I wish going to school for him was as easy as it was when I was a kid. Just a walk up the block and then a right on Avenue C. But that’s just another story for another day.</div>
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But maybe some things really don’t change; every September when school starts my son Andres gets very nervous about the new school year. I just try to remind him that “the first day is always the hardest” and if he ever gets mad, just “put down the glue and</div>
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walk away”.</div>
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The truth is my "Castle of Discontentment" actually became my "Castle of Enchantment". And I still smile like I did in my kindergarten class photo each and every day when I pass P.S. 179, never forgetting my first day.</div>
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(I am second row, second from left)</div>
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Ron Lopez</div>
Ron Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-7651786633780255592012-10-18T13:31:00.003-04:002012-10-18T14:30:35.935-04:00Hanging out on Freddie's stoopOn any given August night back in 1975 you could find me down the block on Freddie Schefferman's stoop. But not just me you know, the rest of the boys also made Freddie's stoop their perpetual brick and mortar home. Glen Gruder, Robert Brennan, Neil O’Callahan, Jimmy Spinner and my cousin Pete Liria.<br />
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Now most of us were anywhere from fifteen to twenty at the time, and Freddie was much older. Freddie could have easily passed for Jesus or Tommy Chong from “Cheech and Chong”. With long wavey black hair, a beard and little round glasses. It was hard to imagine what Freddie really looked like too.</div>
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Freddie may have been 35 years old at the time. His mother and father owned the house he lived in. And from the stories Freddie told us all the time, we were pretty sure that he grew up on the block too. I know Freddie graduated from Pratt in Brooklyn and did work “freelance” from time to time. Hey, he even owned a 68 Triumph Spitfire convertible, so he had to have some kind of dough. But most of the time Freddie just loved to “hang out” on the block. Just looking like “Jesus” in his bell-bottoms, sandals, and yellow and white striped shirt. Leaning against the white picket fence of his house talking to anyone who wanted to “hang out” with him.</div>
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Freddie did spend some time in Vietnam too; I think he told us he used to make maps there. But we never pushed it because who knew if he would “Freak out” about it. And Freddie knew just about everything you know, politics, art, religion, history, philosophy, and most important, Brooklyn.</div>
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“You kids should have been around here when the Trolleys ran on Church Avenue. You couldn’t imagine the shit we used to do with the Trolleys”</div>
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Freddie did share many of his Church Avenue Trolley stories with us. From squashing pennies on the rails to making late night explosions on the high wires by throwing a metal pipe up at the lines, hoping to arc them both at once, and causing something to blow. I guess it did work sometimes, because Freddie told us many stories about being chased by the cops up our block too.</div>
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“What the hell are you guys doing here with me?”</div>
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“you should be out getting laid somewhere,</div>
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you guys are really schmucks!”</div>
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Now we never asked Freddie the same question, because it was</div>
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still a Saturday night, and the clock just struck midnight for him</div>
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too. But we just took his insults in stride, and just listened to</div>
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more of his stories.</div>
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“Did you guys check out that new program “Saturday Night Live”, now that’s some funny shit. Hopefully NBC won’t cancel it next year like they always do. Bunch of schmucks!”</div>
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Freddie was a Jewish 60’s flower child with an edge.</div>
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“You guys are little assholes, didn’t you see</div>
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that girl walk by and smile at you?”</div>
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“Why don’t you talk to her and get her number?”</div>
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“When I was your age I had a girl on each arm every night”</div>
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No one ever dared to ask Freddie what happened,</div>
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because we never saw him with anyone on the block.</div>
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No, instead of a beautiful girl on each side of his shoulders,</div>
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Freddie had us instead. And let me tell you, we were far</div>
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from being beautiful.</div>
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Freddie hated the establishment too,</div>
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every President sucked,</div>
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every Governor sucked,</div>
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every Mayor sucked.</div>
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But then again we never asked Freddie if he ever voted.</div>
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On very rare occasions Freddie would let us down into his basement to see all his photography equipment. Freddie knew all about mold making and casting too. In fact he made me my first fiberglass goalie mask that I still have today. We may have even seen “pot roaches” in empty cat food cans down there too. If Freddie did smoke pot, we never knew it, because he kept his personal life in the basement. </div>
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Sometimes some of my friend’s dads would playfully rib Freddie about the fact that he seemed to be blissfully un-employed. Especially my friend Robert’s dad Bob Brennan.</div>
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Now Bob worked on the World Trade Center and told us countless stories about being up on the tower crane some 110 stories up. About how it swayed back and forth and almost got him sick on windy days.</div>
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“Hey get a job you bum”</div>
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Freddie would just laugh with all of us sitting around him.</div>
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Like overgrown Santa’s elf’s around our spiritual leader.</div>
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“Hey, I am working” “I’m teaching these kids about life,</div>
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including your son” “I’ll send you the bill next week!”</div>
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Sometimes another great Brooklyn philosopher and storyteller, Freddie’s downstairs tenant “Bobby Wilson” would join in on the conversation. Bobby Wilson was stocky and stood about six feet tall, with a big square jaw, dark blue eyes and midnight black hair. Bobby always looked like he was on the verge of murdering someone. He drove a tow truck for “Al & Leo’s” collision on 36th street near Fort Hamilton. In fact the place is now called “36th Street Collision” and Al is still the owner. Bobby always wore a dark blue jump suit with red script letters “Bobby” on his left chest, With the police scanner blaring and the volume up high, you always knew when Bobby was on the block. And don't forget, he had his name painted on the truck also, so you just couldn't miss him.</div>
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I think if Bobby didn’t know Freddie, he may have just beaten him up because of his long hair. Bobby hated hippies, freaks, the un-employed, the protesters, and the left-wingers. I think you get the picture. Yet together they were our own "Curtis Sliwa and Ron Kuby" right on East 4th street. Just arguing about everything and taking opposite sides on any subject. And of course Bobby’s solution for everything if conversation and debate didn’t work was to just “kick their asses” Most of Bobby’s stories were about his adventures driving his tow truck for Al and Leo. And usually when he was the first person to get to some horrible accident somewhere before the cops.</div>
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“Now who has a weak stomach here?”</div>
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“Because if you do, I don’t think you want to hear this one”</div>
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“OK, I heard this call on the scanner about a roll-over on McDonald and avenue C. It was late at night and I’m just a couple of blocks away. I get there and the car's totally in flames. It looked like a 69 Charger but I wasn’t sure. And the guys still in it because I see his head. So I try to pull the guy out of the car and the only thing I can grab is his head. So I’m on the ground squatting like this, just pulling and pulling. And them “Boom”, I fall backwards and the guy’s head comes off right in my hands. I’m on my back just looking at his head in my hands. I think he was even trying to talk to me too cause his lips were moving”.</div>
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At this point Freddie would be looking up at the</div>
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sky above East 4th, just rolling his eyes.</div>
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“Hey Freddie you think I’m bullshittin?”</div>
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“Cause if you do I’ll go upstairs and show you the guys ear,</div>
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I cut it off as a souvenir”</div>
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Freddie would just shake his head.</div>
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And the stories just went on and on, and the hot summer nights just rolled on by. I guess our parents were torn, on one hand they wanted us to be going out more, but then on the other all my mom had to do was poke her head out the window and see us all on Freddie’s stoop.</div>
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But just like everything when you were young,</div>
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you thought it would never end.</div>
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Until one day our nightmare came true.</div>
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Freddie told us he found a job and was going back to work.</div>
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Well, back to work, that’s ok. Because I worked too, and went to college also. So maybe Freddie couldn’t hang out till 2 AM anymore.</div>
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And then it hit us like a brick, my heart sunk, my world ended. Freddie told us his job was in Alaska, and he was leaving within a week, and would not be back for years.</div>
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We left the stoop that night feeling very depressed, but still held out some hope that Freddy was full of shit.</div>
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But then the day came that would be etched in my mind forever. Just a few days after Freddie told us the news I was sitting on my porch with some of the guys. Across the street was some guy walking with a clean white shirt and kacky pants. He crossed the street and started walking towards us. He had short black hair, clean smooth skin and a big bright smile. He also wore little round glasses.</div>
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“Do you guys know who I am?”</div>
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We just looked at him perplexed and said “no”</div>
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“You’re kidding, you don’t know who I am?”</div>
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“Sorry” we said, “we have no idea”</div>
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“You schmucks” the voice sounded familiar, yet the face wasn’t.</div>
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“I’m Freddie, you assholes”</div>
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Oh, my god, it was Freddie, he cut his beard, hair, and was wearing a white button down shirt and dress pants.</div>
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We all just stared at him in shock.</div>
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“I told you guys I got a job,</div>
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what did you think, I was full of shit?”</div>
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I guess maybe for once Freddie wasn't</div>
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full of shit, no he was really leaving the</div>
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block, and wouldn't be back for years.</div>
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I don’t remember the day Freddie left,</div>
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I may have been working or in college at the time.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
We tried to pick up the pieces with Bobby Wilson and his tow truck stories, but it wasn’t the same without Freddie. Then tragically Bobby’s son Bobby jr. got real sick and died of a brain tumor. And Bobby just wasn’t the same anymore.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
From what I heard he just stayed inside</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
his apartment and did a lot of crying.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The stoop in front of Freddie’s house was empty, yet there</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
was still hope that at least Bobby would be back someday.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
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But then one day when I got home from work I remember seeing a NYC morgue truck in front of Freddie’s house. I figured it was Freddie’s mom that died because she was quite old. As the black body bag was being carried out of the house, Bobby’s wife Eileen was holding on to it and crying. It was Bobby Wilson.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The doctors said it was an aneurism,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
but we knew it was just a broken heart.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Because Bobby just could not live without his son.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
I remember the funeral at Pitta’s on McDonald Avenue.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The whole block must have come that night.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
And there was Bobby in the casket.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
With a cigar in his pocket, and still looking like he could</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
kick someone’s ass, even in death.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Yeah, it was over.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Everyone was gone.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
So the stoop remained empty forever at 418 East 4th.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
And after Freddie’s parents died he sold the house.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
We moved on with our lives. Found girlfriends or got married.</div>
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Some of us even moved away far from the block.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
I heard Freddie finished his work in Alaska</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
and finally did get married.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
In fact, rumor is he still lives in Brooklyn.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
But truth is, I haven’t seen him in almost 30 years,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
and neither has anyone else.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
And I hope that some of those late night stories</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
about Brooklyn and life rubbed off on me too.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Because I grew up with some of the greatest storytellers</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
in Brooklyn, although at the time I don’t think they had</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
a clue that they were just that, “story tellers”.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
And Freddie, wherever you are.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Thanks for all those great nights on your stoop.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Just hanging out and passing time,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
and giving me a "gift" I will never forget.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Ron Lopez</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Mopar195@yahoo.com<br />
http://www.facebook.com/ronald.lopez.7946</div>
Ron Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-9864019636767639732012-04-23T13:49:00.001-04:002012-10-18T14:30:48.095-04:00The Rev in Action (from October 2011)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxZfmVdw6v6SML73ljY8tDx5DDxuHR3S0aWpcuoH4Wt4X7P3OJploDsa6o51aBaX4WtZh3QtGdrMd1ejxYaXA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
http://www.facebook.com/ronald.lopez.7946Ron Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-64415086292322741832012-04-03T10:11:00.004-04:002012-10-18T14:31:02.880-04:00The Rev (R.I.P)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW8GMbsnmYX4CLR0A1M2-B_NN4aV3PWw5ogfUjTcteHILaMbUa0IavEmCq7EZITctMvCHqzWtNr6jQDWTtFwxYbZ-Y0gDjIx6p4g2yaacf-DA8R2v3tQBcgzVYanscmErtJgC89-PHwo1k/s1600-h/Picture+1.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400794028134453474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW8GMbsnmYX4CLR0A1M2-B_NN4aV3PWw5ogfUjTcteHILaMbUa0IavEmCq7EZITctMvCHqzWtNr6jQDWTtFwxYbZ-Y0gDjIx6p4g2yaacf-DA8R2v3tQBcgzVYanscmErtJgC89-PHwo1k/s400/Picture+1.png" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; height: 400px; width: 310px;" /></a><br />
<br />
East 4th will never be the same anymore, <br />
the Rev died this morning.<br />
<br />
I have known the Rev for all of my 54 years here on Earth and in Brooklyn. His loud booming voice was a trademark for our block along with his laughing. The Rev knew my whole family, my mom, sister, brother, father, grandfather, grandmother, etc. He used to tell me sometimes that they spoke to him from beyond the grave, especially my mother. He used to tell me that my mom told him to watch over me because she's no longer here and needed him to do so. And although I don't really believe in much, I always believed the Rev somehow. Because "I can speak to the dead you know, because I am a Profit sent here by God". Yeah, the Rev just had that kind of power, the power to make you believe in something.<br />
<br />
"Hey Ron, you know you got to take me with you to the mountains one day, I want to see the mountains and your house in the country" Well, I never got to take the Rev up to Delaware County and I'm feeling bad about that now.<br />
<br />
One time back in the 90's the Rev drove with Bob Brennan, Tommy Brennan and I to Kennedy airport to see us off on a trip to Spain. He was hooting and hollering in the car the whole trip and made me totally forget about my fear of flying. <br />
<br />
"Hey Baby"<br />
<br />
"Hey, what's going on Man?"<br />
<br />
"Good morning to you beautiful"<br />
<br />
"Ahhh, haaaa, haaaa, Woooooooo!"<br />
<br />
"You know I'm a Profit sent here by God"<br />
<br />
"You've got a dollar, I've got a dollar"<br />
<br />
"You're FUNNY Boy"<br />
<br />
From giving away food that the Rev had in his trunk to just being out there polishing his car, you knew everything was always all right when the Rev was there. He kept and eye on you and he kept an eye on your house when you were gone. Yeah, thats some Rev action going on and you knew it.<br />
<br />
You know back in the 70's the Rev used to come out of the Margaret Court dressed in a long white fur coat, big old white hat with the two most beautiful black women holding each of his arms. He'd walk with them to his big white Caddie and they'd be on their way. Oh, I know what you're thinking, but no one ever really knew and no one ever asked either.<br />
<br />
"Hey Ron, you know you and I got to take this show on the road and go preaching together. I got a white suit for you and a hat you could wear. We'll visit prisons and churches all over the country and preach together" <br />
<br />
Well, it all sounded good but with two kids, a full time job and a wife it may be a little difficult.<br />
<br />
"Hey Rev, you got to wait till I retire in five years or so, then we'll do it!"<br />
<br />
I really thought the Rev was going to be around a lot longer, from one day driving his car to the next morning having a massive stroke. It just all seemed to happen too quickly for me. You see the Rev was supposed to live till 100 and still be polishing his car out there right now. There was a trip to the mountains for us, there were trips to the Hollywood car wash together like before. There was supposed to be more hanging out on my stoop together, no the Rev was supposed to be here on East Fourth much longer than this. This just isn't right. <br />
<br />
After the Rev had his stroke I went to visit him a few times in the hospital. While his body seemed strong his mind was not all there. He really didn't know who I was although he could stand straight up and still preach the word of God just like always. <br />
<br />
I remember giving him a great big hug before I left and kissing him on his cheek. <br />
<br />
"You know I'm a Profit, and God speaks through me"<br />
<br />
No matter how much I never believed anything else,<br />
I always believed the Rev. <br />
<br />
And I'm glad I did.<br />
<br />
<br />
Ron Lopez<br />
Mopar195@yahoo.com<br />
http://www.facebook.com/ronald.lopez.7946Ron Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-5768368956483171162012-03-16T13:23:00.001-04:002014-09-18T20:49:15.613-04:00When the Sun Sets over Brooklyn<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcptstqbhBNkdjnMA3jFjncEj4pz9V0RptJb5O75SL7MsFkR3jsLTqk2ESb0-oOkwQbBaWD6GLpEKDEIiWoUIY-40QrIxdDJ2USHRoOvPI0VGfFT1cp3aCOSLtdtoyAz-Hpq2SnBCupu8/s1600-h/Picture+4.png"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcptstqbhBNkdjnMA3jFjncEj4pz9V0RptJb5O75SL7MsFkR3jsLTqk2ESb0-oOkwQbBaWD6GLpEKDEIiWoUIY-40QrIxdDJ2USHRoOvPI0VGfFT1cp3aCOSLtdtoyAz-Hpq2SnBCupu8/s320/Picture+4.png" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153652096888978258" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; margin: 0 10px 10px 0;" /></a><br />
The old woman moved very slowly down the cold concrete sidewalk of East 4th street. Her body was bent forward as she used the tiny blue shopping cart to help steady her walk. With her knuckles swollen and her hands looking somewhat distorted, she gripped the cart's thin metal bar for dear life. Wearing her old favorite tan overcoat and dark sunglasses she had hair as white as a new fallen snow. The wind was bitter cold as it blew against her skin, she seemed to be counting her steps as she walked. The wheels of the cart squeaked quite loudly and made a sound that was almost seemed musical, the spokes just glistening in the morning sunlight. I watched her until she vanished around the corner onto Beverly Road.<br />
<br />
She was tall and beautiful with long brown wavy hair and dark blue eyes. There she stood under the big clock at the Hotel Astor in Manhattan. “Hey gorgeous, how about a movie tonight?” The young woman smiled as she glanced back up at the clock. It was five minutes to six and her date would be there any minute. His name was Ray Ravelli, and he was a professional boxer. Tonight there would be a lot of stopping on the way to dinner, because everyone knew Ray when he walked through Times Square. As the clock struck six and the bells gently tolled, she saw Ray walking towards her. <br />
She smiled as he took her hand.<br />
<br />
“Hey Ray, when you going to fight Graziano again.” With quickness in her steps she pulled him along through the busy sidewalks of Times Square. Ray, unable to answer the question from the stranger just turned to her and said, “Hey Stella, how about we just get married and move to California?”. She just looked at him and shook her head "No".<br />
<br />
She looked into the mirror and closely studied her face. The mirror just looked back at her, staring straight into her eyes. “Who you looking at you old woman!” The lady in the mirror just smiled back. With much caution in her steps she slowly walked out of the bathroom and headed towards her favorite chair by the window, her old bent finger flipped up the switch of her radio. She loved “Prairie Home Companion” on a Saturday night. Then she reached into her bathrobe pocket and pulled out her mother’s old magnifying glass. She placed it against the face of her watch and slowly drew it towards her blue eyes. It was six o’clock and time for another beautiful sunset over Brooklyn.<br />
<br />
My Mom never married Ray the boxer. He wanted to elope and move to California, my mom just wasn’t that adventurous and instead decided to stay in New York and make Brooklyn her home. She loved the excitement of Brooklyn and especially the young people. “Do you think I want to live with a bunch of old people and hear all their stories about aches and pains? no, I’d rather live with the young, at least they help you forget that you’re old”.<br />
<br />
My mom died on October 13, 2001 at the age of 83.<br />
She never left Brooklyn, and I never remembered to oil the squeaky wheels of her carriage.<br />
<br />
Ron Lopez<br />
Mopar195@yahoo.com<br />
http://www.facebook.com/ronald.lopez.7946Ron Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-53879656368011884482012-02-02T10:12:00.004-05:002012-03-08T14:49:58.085-05:00Goldfeather<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfbB84683TCEtrAvG2Ok1X775w7-bRWtYKA44XxOAmG5tdltNkguoC-Tqbs9LMjesFqP5gol8Kk41J-L8QHNnoXrOGv46THPVn5z0K_FCfbBs5T6pPJNf2uMRLO-DgQWJPlWkNCtGAzvg/s1600-h/Picture+4.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfbB84683TCEtrAvG2Ok1X775w7-bRWtYKA44XxOAmG5tdltNkguoC-Tqbs9LMjesFqP5gol8Kk41J-L8QHNnoXrOGv46THPVn5z0K_FCfbBs5T6pPJNf2uMRLO-DgQWJPlWkNCtGAzvg/s320/Picture+4.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134714701021240002" /></a><br />He used to walk up my block when I was a kid. He was a short man maybe in his 50’s. He had black hair, a moustache and thick “Buddy Holly” style glasses. <br />Sam usually wore a brown overcoat in <br />the winter and a sports jacket in the summer. He could always be seen wearing a brown or black derby too. <br /><br />Now Sam also walked with a cane, except most of the time it was never touching the sidewalk. Instead he used it to point at people. <br /><br />“Hey ya bum ya, you fuckin bum” <br /><br />those words were Sams trademark as he walked up East 4th. <br />And he usually uttered them when he was drunk. <br /><br />Now, we were never mean to Sam, and actually liked him. Even when he called us “fuckin bums”, because we may have been only five or six years old at the time and actually thought he was funny. So there he would stand with a newspaper under his arm, his face flushed red and a bottle sticking out of his coat pocket. His old cane right in our faces as we played in front of our house. <br /><br />“Hey you know what you are?” <br />“A FUCKIN BUM!”. <br /><br />We would all start laughing at this point because Sam always had a smile on his face when he cursed at us. <br /><br />“Thats Goldfeather, <br />Sam Goldfeather” <br /><br />And then he would slowly walk up the block towards Avenue C. <br />Just pointing his cane at anyone he saw until he vanished around <br />the corner. <br /><br />And then there was Sam’s brother Irving Goldfeather” who looked strikingly similar to Sam. Except Irving was always seen walking in the opposite direction towards Beverly Road. Usually on his way to work in the morning. Yet, Sams brother was quiet and businesslike and would always tip his hat to my Mom and say:<br /><br /> “Good morning Mrs. Lopez, a beautiful day isn’t it?. <br /><br />“Mom, why don’t Sam and Irving ever walk together?” <br /><br />My mom would usually just say that “Maybe Sam sleeps late”. <br /><br />Then one day Sam told us while waving his cane in our faces that he was moving to Florida and wouldn’t be around anymore. He said his brother Irving would be staying, and for us to be nice to him. <br />Well, I guess I was pretty naive because I must have been in High School before I figured out that they were actually the same person. And Sam did a pretty good show holding a job during the day only to drink his problems away at the bars on Church Avenue, and then from his pocket before he got home. But truth is from that day on we only saw his brother Irving walking up and down the block. And he never cursed, always wished my Mom a good day, and only walked with his cane touching the sidewalk.<br /><br />Ron Lopez<br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://cdn.widgetserver.com/syndication/subscriber/InsertWidget.js"></script><script type="text/javascript">if (WIDGETBOX) WIDGETBOX.renderWidget('fb47ccfd-ed46-4593-9294-4a08d8ba7a04');</script><br /><noscript>Get the <a href="http://www.widgetbox.com/widget/miku-smiles">Miku Smiles</a> widget and many other <a href="http://www.widgetbox.com/">great free widgets</a> at <a href="http://www.widgetbox.com">Widgetbox</a>! Not seeing a widget? (<a href="http://support.widgetbox.com/">More info</a>)</noscript>Ron Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-69055722320089394522011-12-29T13:08:00.003-05:002011-12-29T13:12:18.404-05:00Rev Update...The Rev seems to be getting better and is making progress according to the medical staff at Maimonides hospital. He is being looked after and can actually walk and feed himself on his own. He's still a little groggy but is starting to laugh like he always did here on the block. We are all hoping and praying that he makes a gigantic recovery and returns to his old apartment here on East Fourth street. So once again folks, lets all say a prayer for the Rev.<br /><br />Ron LopezRon Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-17675392969867972912011-12-24T14:37:00.003-05:002011-12-24T14:39:55.763-05:00Pray for the Rev<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW8GMbsnmYX4CLR0A1M2-B_NN4aV3PWw5ogfUjTcteHILaMbUa0IavEmCq7EZITctMvCHqzWtNr6jQDWTtFwxYbZ-Y0gDjIx6p4g2yaacf-DA8R2v3tQBcgzVYanscmErtJgC89-PHwo1k/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 310px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW8GMbsnmYX4CLR0A1M2-B_NN4aV3PWw5ogfUjTcteHILaMbUa0IavEmCq7EZITctMvCHqzWtNr6jQDWTtFwxYbZ-Y0gDjIx6p4g2yaacf-DA8R2v3tQBcgzVYanscmErtJgC89-PHwo1k/s400/Picture+1.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400794028134453474" /></a><br /><br />This past week the Rev suffered a stroke. He's in the hospital right now recovering. Please say a prayer for the Rev and let's hope he someday returns.<br /><br />The following is a piece I wrote last year...<br /><br />I have known "Prophet Allen" for just about all my life here on East Fourth. And if my memory serves me right, the "Rev", as all us natives actually know him, moved here sometime in the mid-1960's from<br /> parts unknown. <br /><br />With a bellowing laugh that could be heard all the way from Church Avenue, "the Prophet" is certainly a living legend of East Fourth, and probably all of Brooklyn as well. Wearing his signature "white" outfits, Prophet Allen can be seen almost every day of the year polishing his automobile of choice to perfection. <br /><br />And they are usually white as well.<br /><br />"You know Ron, a clean car means a clean mind"<br /><br />Yes, I have heard these words mentioned to me many times in the past. And if my mini van is an indicator of how clean my mind is, then I'd probably be doing something very different right now than writing this blog. And I'm sure the "Prophet" would be praying for me right now and cleansing my soul of all its demons.<br /><br />Yes, Prophet Allen,<br />A living legend of East Fourth,<br />and also a good friend of mine.<br /><br />Long Live the Prophet!<br /><br />Ron Lopez<br />Mopar195@yahoo.comRon Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-19502634992830732892011-12-19T20:59:00.001-05:002011-12-19T20:59:39.883-05:00Some Bad Habits at IHM<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipD5O-paZwdajXcieRPOT4uZ_MGjCEx-LRkGkkPYe_JKzkz0OF8IL8ifNoomoQ_w3zo24khtllh5LGTWE9Iwn5J8xkZNgYU94i-PgB6Mz53XIhW8YoB5XVWDuEHQAYBOE7WgEBu7enLh0/s1600-h/Picture+5.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipD5O-paZwdajXcieRPOT4uZ_MGjCEx-LRkGkkPYe_JKzkz0OF8IL8ifNoomoQ_w3zo24khtllh5LGTWE9Iwn5J8xkZNgYU94i-PgB6Mz53XIhW8YoB5XVWDuEHQAYBOE7WgEBu7enLh0/s320/Picture+5.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5130611059604545922" /></a><br />As I sat in my third grade classroom in PS 179 I could hear them roaring towards us. From my desk I could look out the window and see their long yellow roofs. They parked in front of the school entranceway on Avenue C. With their diesel engines just clattering away, I knew it was my time to go. On every Wednesday at 2 o’clock my stomach would start to hurt. It was time for the public school Christians to leave our sanctuary of bliss and head North up East 3rd street to The Immaculate Heart of Mary school. It was time for “Religious Instructions”. As I gathered my books and headed out the door I looked back and said good bye to Miss Saltzman. She just smiled back at me looking as beautiful as ever in her white go go boots. As I started to walk down the battle ship gray stairs I really started to feel nauseas. But you see I wasn’t alone, about four other<br />children followed me down. All of us silent, no words ever spoken. “Ronnie are you feeling OK” asked the school bus matron. A friend of my Mom’s whose name always escaped me. I tried to smile at her, but my lips always had a problem arcing up on the sides on a Wednesday afternoon. I always sat in the back of the bus too. Right under the “emergency exit” sign. Maybe hoping it would open up one day and I would just fall out. As the bus driver closed the doors, I closed my eyes. The bustling clatter of the diesel engine got louder as we pulled away and made a left onto East 3rd street. The ride up East 3rd street was the greatest torture. Especially as we passed Church Avenue, because everything I loved was right outside the school bus window, almost within reach. Kennys Toy Store, Lee’s Toy Store and a brand new Pizzeria called “Korner”. All the places I loved to visit with my Mom, yet here I am sitting on a cold school bus seat heading towards my doom. Church Avenue just vanished in the distance behind me. The bus made a left on Fort Hamilton Parkway and gently stopped in front of IHM School. We all silently gathered our belongings and filed out the bus. At this point I would really start to dread them. With my stomach feeling worse I was hoping to start throwing up this time before we got inside. One of them opened a heavy red metal door, dressed only in black, she just stared at us through her little round eyeglasses, not saying a word. The<br />public school heathens had just arrived. We sat in the classroom, all silent. One of them stood in front of the chalk board, she too was dressed in black with something white around the top of her head. Some kind of hat. Right below her head was a large white disc that looked like it was sawed in two. She held a long wooden yardstick in her wrinkled old hand. She just stood there glaring at us. I could make out her bee bee eyes behind her glasses, they were dark blue. She started to speak, “Now who can tell me about Jesus......And then it happened like it always did. There she was standing in front of the class. She had to be the most beautiful teacher at 179. Miss Saltzman, with beautiful dark eyes and long silky black hair. She had to be a dream, because when she spoke to me I just melted. When I’m old enough I’m going to marry Miss Saltzman, my third grade teacher. And even when she handed me my test papers that usually scored no more than 65. I just stared at her beautiful milky white hands and then her beautiful face, then down her neck to her tight pink sweater and then at her two beautiful full......Wack!, Wack!, Wack!, the tip of the wooden yardstick slammed hard on my desk, just barely missing my little fingers and almost hitting my Timex Dumbo watch that my Mom just bought me for Christmas. “I said wake-up and pay<br />attention young man!” “Don’t you care about Jesus?” At that point I was too scared to look up at her, I could only stare at the cross that was hanging on her waist with some sad looking skinny man with a long beard nailed to it. “I said look at me when I speak to you!” Now she was screaming at the top of her lungs. “I said look at meeeeeeeeeee.........and that’s when it happened. Without warning it just burst from my stomach, hot and steamy, with little pieces of the hot dog I just had for lunch. And it was all over her black dress, with some of it hitting the little man on the cross. I had just vomited like so many times before, and the “nerve medicine” my Mom gave me every Wednesday morning failed to work, again. I just sat<br />there frozen and she just stood there silent. “Now go to the boys room and clean yourself up”. I got up from my desk, I could feel evey ones eyes staring at my back as I walked out the door and down to the Boys room. I tried my best to wash myself off and I must have been there for a while, because when I walked out I could see my Mom talking with the Nun outside the classroom. My little sister Isabel was there too, just sitting in her stroller staring at the Nun. We left early that day and as we walked along Fort Hamilton Parkway towards East 4th the Church bells started ringing. <br />“Mom do I have to go back?” “You know what you have to do Ronnie” <br />is all my Mom said. Well, I did somehow manage to survive “Religious Instructions” and even made my Communion and Conformation at IHM. All because I knew “What I had to do”, Something thats just in your blood when you’re from Brooklyn. But the truth is even today some 43 later, I still can’t help but feel a little nervous when I see a Nun. The memories of “Religious Instructions”, the bus rides and the vomiting just come back to me like a nightmare. Because you see, even at 50, Some Bad Habits” are just too hard to forget!<br /><br />Ron Lopez<br /><br /><a href="http://easyhitcounters.com/stats.php?site=poochie57" target="_top"><img border="0" alt="Website Counter" src="http://beta.easyhitcounters.com/counter/index.php?u=poochie57&s=a" ALIGN="middle" HSPACE="4" VSPACE="2"></a><script src=http://beta.easyhitcounters.com/counter/script.php?u=poochie57></script><br /><br><a href="http://easyhitcounters.com/" target="_top"><font color="#666666">Free Counter</font></a>Ron Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-22008636131261051582011-11-23T20:39:00.001-05:002011-11-23T20:41:16.829-05:00Still giving thanks after all these years!It all started early on Thanksgiving morning, my brother Joseph, little sister Isabel and my cousins Pete and Denise would all either walk up or down their respective flight of stairs to our grandparents apartment on the second floor. We would then camp out on the rug in front of the TV and wait for the start of the Macys Thanksgiving Day Parade. My grandfather Paco would be sitting on his "Lazy Boy" right behind us all waiting for the show to start. The turkey cooking in the oven usually started in the morning too, and you could just about smell it throughout the entire house. Later in the afternoon the whole family would be there sitting around the dinner table. The voices of my aunt and uncle, grandparents, cousins, brother, sister, mother and father could be heard throughout the hallows of the wooden stairway. Not to mention the dogs barking too. So, I'm thankful for living in an attic apartment with my Mom, Dad, Brother and sister. Being able to grow up with the entire family in one big house, on one great block, in the City of Brooklyn. And still have all those wonderful memories to write about for now and the years to come.<br />And Hey, Still giving thanks after all these years!<br /><br />Ron LopezRon Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-58122343000035678342011-09-23T10:56:00.003-04:002011-09-23T11:10:23.571-04:00Donald and the F train<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPaksYgb7pG_7xoM4x2hlOjvMgISSThwsWqWMke-2ooO-6h9TiSujC21sPhor2foZj0kGTcEFxgagGXkNjHKA1SZqIZR1JNVEKLBYBTltk6jlcIM_X3soKqdZw4ck7XJtqsmaEb8Nls3o/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-09-23+at+11.06.12+AM.png"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 323px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPaksYgb7pG_7xoM4x2hlOjvMgISSThwsWqWMke-2ooO-6h9TiSujC21sPhor2foZj0kGTcEFxgagGXkNjHKA1SZqIZR1JNVEKLBYBTltk6jlcIM_X3soKqdZw4ck7XJtqsmaEb8Nls3o/s400/Screen+shot+2011-09-23+at+11.06.12+AM.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655571760898905346" /></a><br />He was tall and thin and carried a black garbage bag onto <br />the subway car. His skin was dark and his face unshaven.<br /><br />I remember looking at another homeless man that day on <br />the F. He walked on to the train at the 14th street station <br />by Union Square, and just stood there across from where <br />I was standing.<br /><br />And people gave him his “room” too, because that’s <br />what you do when the homeless walk onto your train, <br />you just give them their space, and hope they don’t <br />bother you.<br /><br />I just stared at him and looked at his eyes, because <br />the eyes never change, even when you’re homeless. <br /><br />He looked back at me, his eyes were as dark as coal,<br />he said nothing.<br /><br />I know he felt strange when I saw him too. So he just <br />walked away and sat down on a seat facing the opposite <br />direction so I couldn’t notice who he was. <br /><br />The people sitting next to him all got up and found <br />other seats in the subway car. <br /><br />I walked towards him though, and sat beside him.<br /><br />“Hey Donald, remember me? <br />it’s Ronnie from Art & Design”<br /><br />He turned his head towards me, <br />but didn’t look in my eyes this time.<br /><br />“How you doin man?” is all he said<br /><br />“I’m fine Don, I’m fine”<br /><br />“Yeah, well, you know since High School <br />things have been a little rough for me”<br />“I’m ok, but things are just not that good”<br /><br />I remember my first day of high school back in 1972,<br />Donald was one of the first people I sat with at <br />the lunch table in the back of the cafeteria.<br /><br />Donald always wore these really cool tinted sunglasses and<br />had a small goatee. While most other kids weren’t even <br />shaving yet, including me, Don looked like he may have <br />been about 20 years old.<br /><br />Along with Donald, I also sat with Ernest and Sandy. <br />Donald and Ernest were black, while Sandy was Jewish. <br />We were certainly a cross section of New York, but hey.<br />That’s what made the High School of Art and Design <br />so cool back in 1972. <br /><br />Yeah, the High School of Art and Design. I never knew <br />some of my best friends were gay until my senior year. <br />And to tell you the truth it never really mattered either. <br />Because we were all such good friends, and all artists anyway. <br />All going to a school were nobody cared about “what” you<br />were. And no one felt they were better than anyone else.<br /><br />We all just loved that school so much, <br />including my friend Donald.<br /><br />“Hey man I’m getting off here”<br /><br />I reached into by jacket and gave <br />Donald a twenty-dollar bill.<br /><br />Donald just looked at me and said “thanks”.<br /><br />That was about 25 years ago and<br />I haven’t seen Donald since. But the<br />memory of that day will stay with me forever,<br />because Donald was a friend of mine.<br /><br />So the next time you see someone riding <br />the F-train with a bundle of sorrow.<br />Think about my friend Donald, and never<br />ever feel that you’re better than anyone else.<br />Because someday that person might just be you.<br /><br />Ron LopezRon Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-87355135516540573512011-09-08T11:40:00.001-04:002011-09-08T11:40:53.645-04:00I always knew this...Kensington/Boro Park Tops List of Safest Brooklyn Neighborhoods<br />September 7th, 2011 11:55 pm<br />In a “Crime & Safety” report issued by DNA/Info and detailed in AM/NY, Kensington/Boro Park ranks at the top of its list of the 5 safest Brooklyn neighborhoods and is considered the third safest neighborhood in the entire city.<br /><br />CRIME IN BROOKLYN<br /><br />5 safest neighborhoods<br />1. Kensington and Borough Park<br />2. Bensonhurst<br />3. Sheepshead Bay<br />4. Bay Ridge<br />5. Windsor Terrace<br /><br />5 least safe neighborhoods<br />1. Brownsville<br />2. Fort Greene and Clinton Hill<br />3. Bedford-Stuyvesant<br />4. Brooklyn Heights<br />5. East New YorkRon Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-74163060705933729382011-09-04T18:51:00.004-04:002011-09-04T19:07:44.287-04:00A Little Help Here??<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKNPaEMPjqaVK-M9FxBCOLihAGFykGDbFEXI_OlhpbhD5nUK7_fcfbtk3SI4RVOcph4E_PCnqVy5zVnWYn9wLBDuMFYiXozgp-ErFWVwdaj2n7u-WAYrVZF73yx8gm0SBzcFU-S930sxw/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-09-04+at+7.03.21+PM.png"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 303px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKNPaEMPjqaVK-M9FxBCOLihAGFykGDbFEXI_OlhpbhD5nUK7_fcfbtk3SI4RVOcph4E_PCnqVy5zVnWYn9wLBDuMFYiXozgp-ErFWVwdaj2n7u-WAYrVZF73yx8gm0SBzcFU-S930sxw/s400/Screen+shot+2011-09-04+at+7.03.21+PM.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5648644304509523186" /></a>
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<br />My friends in the Catskills got slammed by Irene. No, it was no joke here and many towns were destroyed. Please help the folks up here by donating something. Here is some info about where to donate:
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<br />http://www.watershedpost.com/2011/catskills-flooding-hurricane-irene-relief-and-recovery-resources
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<br />Thanks,
<br />Ron
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<br />Ron Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-51987068572272618892011-07-13T10:12:00.000-04:002011-07-13T10:13:02.456-04:00The Sewer Cap<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC0-mRo8FWPPWZX6eoW2S83ZycFvSmYIw7xyMiNU2YqsNKsS9w7QDwHXGnjc6g6m8akgM93JS8spKRmTBK-QnLD3yBJSLk8Guu5pz1mKQeRdTO1mwn7mJWAAPoZ_aO6L2mz-Lixq6USLY/s1600-h/Picture+9.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC0-mRo8FWPPWZX6eoW2S83ZycFvSmYIw7xyMiNU2YqsNKsS9w7QDwHXGnjc6g6m8akgM93JS8spKRmTBK-QnLD3yBJSLk8Guu5pz1mKQeRdTO1mwn7mJWAAPoZ_aO6L2mz-Lixq6USLY/s320/Picture+9.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5201284692642712210" /></a><br />We could hear the sound of the engine accelerating from the far reaches of Church Avenue. The moan of the small block V8 was fast approaching, its demise was in reach. <br /><br />“This is going to be a good one,” someone said.<br /><br />We all quickly got up from my front stoop and ran into the street. Our eyes were all fixed on a late model olive colored Pontiac, it looked like a 68 or 69 GTO. As it raced down East 4th and approached Beverley we prepared ourselves for that horrible sound. <br />A familiar sound we heard hundreds of times before, a sound that wounded or killed many a car engine or Torque flight transmission. Or maybe worse, ripped an entire motor from its warm enamel painted nest.<br /><br />As the racing Pontiac crossed Beverley, it’s front nose quickly dipped downwards towards the asphalt. From the distance it looked as though it’s four headlights and painted rubber bumper were gently kissing the black-top below. But then in an instant its face lifted upwards towards the Brooklyn skies above.<br /><br />BAAAAM! BAAAAM!<br /><br />With two quick hard hits to its stomach, the Pontiac bounced up and down like a child’s toy. Blue smoke and sparks quickly seized the area under its hot undercarriage. From a high speed one moment to a slow crawl the next, the grasp of the monster had just ripped its guts out right before our very own eyes. <br /><br />The sound was so loud you could probably hear it from Greenwood Avenue too. It was the sound of metal being crushed and bolts being ripped from the flesh of the car. A transmission pan being slashed down it’s belly, or even worse a heavy steel frame snapping in two. <br /><br />It was the sound of automotive death on a warm Kensington day.<br /><br />The Pontiac slowly limped down our block, spewing blood and entrails behind its broken tin shell and warm red tail lights. <br />The 350 four barrel was just “chugging” a slow horrible song, <br />gone was the glorious melody of its real V8 power.<br /><br />The driver quickly pulled over to the right in front of an apartment house, the Margaret Court across the street. He quickly got out of the car holding the top of his head. He was all right, but the force of the impact must have lifted him off his seat and into the air, hitting his head on the roof of his car.<br /><br />The Pontiac was still smoking and spewing both white and blue smoke. Through the mist of its destruction you could see that the body was broken in two. The nose looking downwards at the ground, while the taillights were angled upwards looking towards <br />Windsor Terrace. <br /><br />Yes, this was indeed a bad one, for the Pontiac looked dead.<br /><br />The driver just stood there staring at the car, and then turned around and slowly walked away up the block. He made a left on to Beverley Road and was never seen again. <br /><br />That GTO must have been there for what seemed like months. <br />Like the corpse of a great racehorse, it just lied there rotting in the Kensington summer sun. Until one day it was gone, leaving us only with a puddle of motor oil and red transmission fluid. <br /><br />Just another insurance payout in the Boro of my birth.<br /><br />And even today, some thirty-five years later, I still slow down before I cross East 4th street at Beverley. Just taking it real slow and gentle before I get to my house. <br /><br />I guess some habits are just hard to break you know.<br /><br />Because you see, a long time ago there was a horrible iron monster that lived in the street. It was probably just a few inches too high for it’s own good. Heavy cast iron, with holes for its eyes. And I’m sure it must have weighed well over a hundred pounds, and took more than one man to move. <br /><br />And it had the blood of a hundred cars on its face and always thirsted for more. It was murderer plain and simple and proudly bared it’s name to all, never caring when it killed. Just heavy bold letters and in capitals no less, forever reminding us of its deadly presence here <br />in Brooklyn. <br /><br />And if the name wasn’t tearing apart the bellies of cars, it was instead emptying the bank accounts of New Yorkers with blue and white bills being slid through a mail slot.<br /><br />A long time ago there was a killer on the loose <br />and it sat at the edge of my block. <br />It showed no mercy and never picked favorites.<br /><br />So just drive slowly my Kensington friends,<br />and remember the deadly <br />"CON EDISON" manhole cover.<br /><br />Because it’s long gone now, <br />and only a distant memory <br />in the Kensington of my youth.<br /><br />Ron LopezRon Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-83741501660449537992011-07-08T12:19:00.002-04:002011-07-08T12:20:11.131-04:00Joe Mirada's Pet Store<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ZPas3Z1W4TFYtkvQFHF9HL9rTjpnbgb0s2AN0M712-BZiWR643EMhZ3D9bpyRJ7FlmHnW4ck2CAuL22jstJLuN7Zwcv1xKB3kO1rHt8Z8yO-fl6tDJHrMcU8Me00LOqVT_78kjq6nWM/s1600-h/Picture+7.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 260px; height: 326px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ZPas3Z1W4TFYtkvQFHF9HL9rTjpnbgb0s2AN0M712-BZiWR643EMhZ3D9bpyRJ7FlmHnW4ck2CAuL22jstJLuN7Zwcv1xKB3kO1rHt8Z8yO-fl6tDJHrMcU8Me00LOqVT_78kjq6nWM/s400/Picture+7.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440050230766804498" /></a><br />I think Joe Mirada’s pet store was somewhere way down Church Avenue near 36th street. <br />And from what I remember as a kid, the place was a very, very long walk from East Fourth. <br /><br />A small, smelly pet store that may have been in “Gods Country” for a reason you know, far removed from all the grocery stores and fruit stores that lined the heart of our Church Avenue. And for anyone who grew up in Kensington, the “Heart” of Church Avenue was anywhere between McDonald Avenue and Ocean Parkway. <br /><br />So here was this pet store way the hell down Church Avenue and almost in Boro Park. Yeah, maybe because it smelled so much the rest of the merchants told old Joe Mirada to stay as far away as possible. <br /><br />But still when you’re a kid you’re going to <br />find a pet store no matter where it is.<br /><br />And even if it's practically in Boro Park<br /><br />“Hey Joey, did you hear that Joe Mirada’s <br />selling hamsters for a dollar?”<br /><br />I remember that day quite well; I was playing on my front porch with my cousin Pete, my brother Joseph and Johnny Reilly from the Margaret Court across the street. <br /><br />“Here, take a look at the one Kevin and I just bought”<br /><br />There inside a cardboard milk container with the top sliced off was this small brown looking thing that looked something like a rat. It seemed to be sniffing around with barely any room to turn it’s little body in the confines of the sour smelling Borden’s milk carton. There was also a bed of shredded paper underneath it as well; it’s tiny teeth just chewing away at the remains of yesterday’s Daily News.<br /><br />“So guys, what do you think?”<br />“There only a dollar and Joe Mirada<br />said he just has a a few left”.<br /><br />Now when I was growing up my older brother always made the “corporate” decisions, not me. And maybe it was because he was almost two years older than me, I don’t know. So when it came to things like when we were going to ride our bikes, or roll tires down our driveway and hit a car, it was always Joseph who made <br />the decisions.<br /><br />“Ronnie, go upstairs and see if mom can give you a dollar, tell her it’s for ice cream from Morris. But DO NOT tell her it’s because we want to buy a hamster. You understand?<br /><br />“But Joey, you know mom hates mice”<br /><br />“It’s not a mouse you idiot, it’s a hamster”.<br /><br />“Now just go upstairs and ask mommy for a dollar”<br /><br />Well, I asked my mom for a dollar, came back downstairs and we were on our way to Joe Mirada’s pet store. I remember it was a very hot summer’s day as we rode our bikes there. A caravan of bicycles on two wheels and training wheels, making their way down the hot gum dotted sidewalks of Church Avenue to the “End of the Earth”. <br />Well, almost Boro Park, but that might as well have been the end of the earth to us.<br /><br /><br />“Oh I see we have more customers, <br />I bet you kids are here for the hamsters right?”<br /><br />Now from what I remember Joe Mirada was this short little Italian man who always wore checkered shirts. The store like I mentioned earlier smelled to high heaven, and given it was a hot summer’s day in Kensington Brooklyn, the smell today was worse than it usually was.<br /><br />Joe Mirada stuck his hand inside a cage and pulled out this little brown thing that looked something like a rat. He quickly put it inside another Borden’s quart milk container and handed it to my <br />brother Joseph.<br /><br />“Here you go kid, that will be one dollar”<br /><br />My brother handed Joe Mirada the dollar, and in return Joseph was handed a smelly Borden’s milk container with something inside of it that looked very much like a rat. I was sure my mom was going to have a fit when she saw it. But I would never tell my brother, because it was his decision to buy it. And that was that.<br /><br />So we got on our bikes and slowly moved Eastward towards East Fourth. Spoke wheels, and solid silver wheels just spinning away until we finally made it back to the concrete confines of our front porch with our little hamster and the smelly milk carton.<br /><br />Now, we may have even been trying to play with it somehow, I can’t quite remember. And just like Johnny Reilly’s hamster, it had the hardest time trying to turn its little body inside the bottom of the empty quart of milk barely able to move.<br /><br />"Hey Joey, see if it wants to play with this stick"<br /><br />Johnny Reilly handed my brother a small twig from<br />our front bushes and he threw it into the carton.<br /><br />The hamster just looked at it and did nothing.<br /><br />"Oh well, maybe it's tired"<br /><br />But then suddenly we saw our mom walking up the block, <br />and unlike my brother, I knew it was all going to be over real soon.<br /><br />“What are you boys doing with those milk containers?”<br />“Is there something inside”?<br /><br />Now this is one of those moments you <br />always remember and tell your kids about. <br /><br />My mom slowly leaning over to look inside the carton,<br />and then her loud blood curdling screams.<br /><br />"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!"<br />"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!"<br />"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!"<br /><br />I think my mother’s screams could be heard all the way from Church Avenue on that warm summer’s day. The hamster just spun in circles at the bottom of the carton as she screamed and screamed. The milk container bellowing outwards at the bottom from the hamster's attempted escape.<br /><br />You see I knew my mom hated mice, <br />yet my brother wanted to buy the hamster<br />and I was powerless.<br /><br />“GET IT AWAY, GET IT AWAY!”<br /><br />My brother Joseph put his hand over the top of the carton trying to shield the hamster from my mom’s screaming. Yet you can still hear it scurrying around in circles on top of it’s bed of shredded Daily News.<br /><br />“But mom, it was only a dollar at Joe….”<br /><br />“TAKE IT BACK NOW!!!!”<br />“TAKE IT BACK NOW!!!!” <br /><br />“I don’t want to see that thing in my house, you understand!”<br /><br />Well, the rest is history folks, we went back to Joe Mirada’s <br />and returned the hamster, and I’m sure he gave my brother <br />the dollar back as well. <br /><br />But I never dared to tell my brother "I told you so".<br />Because he'd kick my ass you know.<br /><br />Yes, Joe Mirada’s pet store, the hamster, and my mother’s screams.<br /> Just another day in the Kensington of my youth, so many years ago.<br /><br />Ron Lopez<br />Mopar195@yahoo.comRon Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-6655796800839605132011-06-22T11:15:00.001-04:002011-06-22T11:15:27.027-04:0090 Church<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoKIJjTOZav7p68oHmXsC_Zy9cyhyavLOXILo4-vDhzYprxLHaaJL5s_uTPXXo7Jl_Q7gF5xO4K4ZP7-gsEZMkSFyDUe_aWuVQtfigMXTOkkRDvb54iN8bbQg70uHYWqs0tydqYn6P42U/s1600-r/Picture+9.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr1W8vwdfHLyoNPE437gNDzUke0WWh8s9Ta_om-iuRLjNlgpd0_vfqjy1fzukjRBrbXD7psBA9gYR6SXOEJRC3I0Ko7dNNCDflOD1qxBJ2Ha4hZ7B4pp8fzrDC5jRCZxXpYIyz2NOBhgY/s320/Picture+9.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139550551557182418" /></a><br />You know those subjects you can’t bring up at the dinner table, the ones that get some people mad. No, were not talking about politics or religion here, it’s something worse. You see back in the summer of 1956 my grandmother and grandfather decided to take a stab at the big fat cash cow called<br /> “Church Avenue”. <br /><br />Now, Church Avenue has always been excellent when it came to simple “foot traffic”, even back in the summer of 1956. Except for one slight problem according to my grandfather “Paco”. The more affluent people with money in their pockets simply made the left from the F-Train and walked along Church to Ocean Parkway. <br />They never looked towards Dahill Road or even bothered to give it a second thought.<br /><br />The name of my grandmothers store was “Isabel’s”; it was located at 90 Church Avenue. Basically the cash cows “tail”, which rarely moved to swat a fly no less. <br /><br />My grandmother Isabel was always a working woman you see. And she usually held positions such as supervisor or “floor lady” wherever she worked. One of her specialties was hand-made lampshades, and she was proud of her position at Krasnours Lamp Shade Factory on Prince street in Manhattan. She was the floor lady there; basically supervising the workers to make sure the quality of the shades were up to standard. A job she held for many years until she decided to give her own business a shot one day. <br /><br />So with the knowledge of Kensington and a “store for rent” sign at <br />90 Church, my grandparents took a plunge into owning their <br />own business. <br /><br />The grand opening was sometime in the summer of 1956. They sold custom-made silk lampshades, imported plates, crystal, porcelain figurines and various other “high end “ knick-knacks. The entire family worked there and helped to keep it a float. My mom, dad, aunt Dolores, and uncle Pete helping out my grandmother and grandfather any way they could. Making deliveries, working the register or taking the F-Train to Canal street to buy the lamp shade skeletons that gave them their shapes.<br /><br />I always remember my grandfathers face getting red when he used to talk about “the store”. <br /><br />“What a waste of money, we should have invested in<br /> another property instead”. “God damn store!”. <br /><br />Now you have to remember that as kids growing up we only heard about “the store”, because it closed down before my cousins and I were even born. Although we knew something had happened once, there was an entire room in the basement full of lampshade skeletons, rolls of silk material, plates and porcelain figurines. And a wonderful large old-fashioned gold cash register in the garage. A huge monster that just sat in the corner gathering dust. As kids we used to play with it, pushing hard down on the buttons to make a metal numeral flip up in a glass window. Or just hide Matchbox or Hotwheels cars in the coin slots. <br /><br />“There they go, never walking this way” said my grandfather Paco standing in front of the store at 90 Church Avenue. <br /><br />“This side of Church Avenue is invisible, this store may as well be in the middle of the woods up in the country”. <br /><br />“With all their money in their pockets, they just walk to their castles in the sky on Ocean Parkway”. <br /><br />“The people that walk past this store are the working class poor, who only look and never buy”. <br /><br />My grandmother just looked at my grandfather and said;<br />“You mean just like us?” <br /><br />My grandfather just shook his head and my grandmother just kept working away, cutting patterns and sewing the beautiful silk shades and hoping for a miracle. Because she always believed that those who worked hard survived, and they both survived the great depression right here in New York City. My grandfather Paco selling Good Humor ice cream off his back in Central Park and my grandmother making hand made silk flowers from their apartment on Pearl street in downtown Brooklyn. Now the site of Metrotech. <br /><br />So there was going to be no giving up here, <br />at least not without a fight.<br /><br />I remember it was something like 1984 when we sold the cash register. I think my aunt listed it in the Buy Lines. And it must have weighed at least 100 pounds. My cousin Pete and I both helped the man carry it to his car. I think he gave us 25 dollars for it. He was opening up his own business somewhere here in Brooklyn, and he liked the old fashioned register. We tried selling the lampshade skeletons back in 1990, the man who looked at them thought they were beautiful, but the rust on them was too much and would only destroy the silk. When he was leaving we even offered them for free, he just smiled and said “no thanks”.<br /><br />With rent being paid on time and little business coming in, the store closed about two years after it opened. There was no meat on this “cows tail”, and my grandfather Paco always had his reservations about that side of Church Avenue. And unfortunately he was right. <br /><br />My Dads 1957 Plymouth station wagon pulled up in front of 90 Church Avenue that day. All the contents of the store were hauled to our house at 399. The inventory was split between my aunt’s old room, the basement and the garage. <br /><br />A month later the store was for rent again.<br /><br />The lamp shades made great props for parties when we wore them on our heads as teenagers. And not to mention there was always an endless supply of porcelain doll eyes for us to look into as kids, constantly worried that they would move, or blink.<br /><br />I spoke to my aunt Dolores the other day, and she said the basic story about her mothers store could be summed up as “wrong place in the wrong time”. I laughed and told her that grandma would have made a killing in today’s Park Slope with a store like that. She said that grandma would have loved to open the store in Manhattan, but just couldn’t afford the rent. <br /><br />But not all family stories have crash landings like “Isabel’s”. About ten years after my grandmothers store closed, her niece Dolores and husband Buzzy opened up another place you may have heard of. Its still called the “Buzzarama” and managed to survive over forty years on the “cows tail” of Church Avenue.<br /><br />And my grandfather Paco, well he always believed real estate was your best bet and bought two hundred acres of land in upstate New York. Right before the store fiasco and just five years after he bought 399 East 4th. So “Isabel’s” was just a bump in the road, a bad decision, and a “wrong place at the wrong time”. Sure they lost money with the store and it made my grandfathers face turn red at the dinner table. But hell, that one hundred pound cash register was sure fun to play with along with those dozens of lampshades on New Years Eve.<br /><br />And like they say, if you never try, you'll never know.<br /><br /><br />Ron Lopez<br />Mopar195@yahoo.comRon Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-76495402800355574002011-06-08T15:07:00.001-04:002011-06-08T15:07:24.125-04:00Goldfeather<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfbB84683TCEtrAvG2Ok1X775w7-bRWtYKA44XxOAmG5tdltNkguoC-Tqbs9LMjesFqP5gol8Kk41J-L8QHNnoXrOGv46THPVn5z0K_FCfbBs5T6pPJNf2uMRLO-DgQWJPlWkNCtGAzvg/s1600-h/Picture+4.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfbB84683TCEtrAvG2Ok1X775w7-bRWtYKA44XxOAmG5tdltNkguoC-Tqbs9LMjesFqP5gol8Kk41J-L8QHNnoXrOGv46THPVn5z0K_FCfbBs5T6pPJNf2uMRLO-DgQWJPlWkNCtGAzvg/s320/Picture+4.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134714701021240002" /></a><br />He used to walk up my block when I was a kid. He was a short man maybe in his 50’s. He had black hair, a moustache and thick “Buddy Holly” style glasses. <br />Sam usually wore a brown overcoat in <br />the winter and a sports jacket in the summer. He could always be seen wearing a brown or black derby too. <br /><br />Now Sam also walked with a cane, except most of the time it was never touching the sidewalk. Instead he used it to point at people. <br /><br />“Hey ya bum ya, you fuckin bum” <br /><br />those words were Sams trademark as he walked up East 4th. <br />And he usually uttered them when he was drunk. <br /><br />Now, we were never mean to Sam, and actually liked him. Even when he called us “fuckin bums”, because we may have been only five or six years old at the time and actually thought he was funny. So there he would stand with a newspaper under his arm, his face flushed red and a bottle sticking out of his coat pocket. His old cane right in our faces as we played in front of our house. <br /><br />“Hey you know what you are?” <br />“A FUCKIN BUM!”. <br /><br />We would all start laughing at this point because Sam always had a smile on his face when he cursed at us. <br /><br />“Thats Goldfeather, <br />Sam Goldfeather” <br /><br />And then he would slowly walk up the block towards Avenue C. <br />Just pointing his cane at anyone he saw until he vanished around <br />the corner. <br /><br />And then there was Sam’s brother Irving Goldfeather” who looked strikingly similar to Sam. Except Irving was always seen walking in the opposite direction towards Beverly Road. Usually on his way to work in the morning. Yet, Sams brother was quiet and businesslike and would always tip his hat to my Mom and say:<br /><br /> “Good morning Mrs. Lopez, a beautiful day isn’t it?. <br /><br />“Mom, why don’t Sam and Irving ever walk together?” <br /><br />My mom would usually just say that “Maybe Sam sleeps late”. <br /><br />Then one day Sam told us while waving his cane in our faces that he was moving to Florida and wouldn’t be around anymore. He said his brother Irving would be staying, and for us to be nice to him. <br />Well, I guess I was pretty naive because I must have been in High School before I figured out that they were actually the same person. And Sam did a pretty good show holding a job during the day only to drink his problems away at the bars on Church Avenue, and then from his pocket before he got home. But truth is from that day on we only saw his brother Irving walking up and down the block. And he never cursed, always wished my Mom a good day, and only walked with his cane touching the sidewalk.<br /><br />Ron LopezRon Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-86411084440084398252011-05-21T05:52:00.002-04:002011-05-21T05:57:12.695-04:00Donald and the F-train<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhETY7AnYqx3p6a1JRSnAX37XMj6v85lw_JPQrU5EHOEX4KR9vkneCQA_31wHjEJJ9OQjfakNp22Wdz2Cjib1Ycr37wbgLmZ9KnvlspFBqn6C8-SZpeK1Ct4I8gA8TIo-GHvILwBUzC3Us/s1600-h/Picture+3.png"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 297px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhETY7AnYqx3p6a1JRSnAX37XMj6v85lw_JPQrU5EHOEX4KR9vkneCQA_31wHjEJJ9OQjfakNp22Wdz2Cjib1Ycr37wbgLmZ9KnvlspFBqn6C8-SZpeK1Ct4I8gA8TIo-GHvILwBUzC3Us/s400/Picture+3.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302578141680675938" /></a><br />He was tall and thin and carried a black garbage bag onto <br />the subway car. His skin was dark and his face unshaven.<br /><br />I remember looking at another homeless man that day on <br />the F. He walked on to the train at the 14th street station <br />by Union Square, and just stood there across from where <br />I was standing.<br /><br />And people gave him his “room” too, because that’s <br />what you do when the homeless walk onto your train, <br />you just give them their space, and hope they don’t <br />bother you.<br /><br />I just stared at him and looked at his eyes, because <br />the eyes never change, even when you’re homeless. <br /><br />He looked back at me, his eyes were as dark as coal,<br />he said nothing.<br /><br />I know he felt strange when I saw him too. So he just <br />walked away and sat down on a seat facing the opposite <br />direction so I couldn’t notice who he was. <br /><br />The people sitting next to him all got up and found <br />other seats in the subway car. <br /><br />I walked towards him though, and sat beside him.<br /><br />“Hey Donald, remember me? <br />it’s Ronnie from Art & Design”<br /><br />He turned his head towards me, <br />but didn’t look in my eyes this time.<br /><br />“How you doin man?” is all he said<br /><br />“I’m fine Don, I’m fine”<br /><br />“Yeah, well, you know since High School <br />things have been a little rough for me”<br />“I’m ok, but things are just not that good”<br /><br />I remember my first day of high school back in 1972,<br />Donald was one of the first people I sat with at <br />the lunch table in the back of the cafeteria.<br /><br />Donald always wore these really cool tinted sunglasses and<br />had a small goatee. While most other kids weren’t even <br />shaving yet, including me, Don looked like he may have <br />been about 20 years old.<br /><br />Along with Donald, I also sat with Ernest and Sandy. <br />Donald and Ernest were black, while Sandy was Jewish. <br />We were certainly a cross section of New York, but hey.<br />That’s what made the High School of Art and Design <br />so cool back in 1972. <br /><br />Yeah, the High School of Art and Design. I never knew <br />some of my best friends were gay until my senior year. <br />And to tell you the truth it never really mattered either. <br />Because we were all such good friends, and all artists anyway. <br />All going to a school were nobody cared about “what” you<br />were. And no one felt they were better than anyone else.<br /><br />We all just loved that school so much, <br />including my friend Donald.<br /><br />“Hey man I’m getting off here”<br /><br />I reached into by jacket and gave <br />Donald a twenty-dollar bill.<br /><br />Donald just looked at me and said “thanks”.<br /><br />That was about 25 years ago and<br />I haven’t seen Donald since. But the<br />memory of that day will stay with me forever,<br />because Donald was a friend of mine.<br /><br />So the next time you see someone riding <br />the F-train with a bundle of sorrow.<br />Think about my friend Donald, and never<br />ever feel that you’re better than anyone else.<br />Because someday that person might just be you.<br /><br />Ron LopezRon Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5845436933807383233.post-88278479600661197182011-05-20T14:32:00.000-04:002011-05-20T14:33:39.283-04:00Catskill Webcam @ 3:00 pm Today<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOzs2EfrFDB6N3awWP_GQ0vTBPTm9eKGEUbus4dqzjdTv4ExqBgdL1GKxAOAsRZUqyILcBYOnH2TqrHYAs-95yLu24AGANM8heU90fwDLpx_QC8S4TYQJ5QMDf-E8zGuriWH-s_jjLQ7M/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-05-20+at+2.32.35+PM.png"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 288px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOzs2EfrFDB6N3awWP_GQ0vTBPTm9eKGEUbus4dqzjdTv4ExqBgdL1GKxAOAsRZUqyILcBYOnH2TqrHYAs-95yLu24AGANM8heU90fwDLpx_QC8S4TYQJ5QMDf-E8zGuriWH-s_jjLQ7M/s400/Screen+shot+2011-05-20+at+2.32.35+PM.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5608868215885762818" /></a><br />Big Sky Time in the CatskillsRon Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00013432967905835800noreply@blogger.com1